


Sacred Trust

by Lanning



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Reality, First Time, Flashback, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-10-07
Updated: 2001-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 128,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanning/pseuds/Lanning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan and Methos' relationship is in ruins, but things can always get worse. And they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I can't do it, Joe."

Richie Ryan, body swaying, eyes bleary and speech slurred, took Joe Dawson by the shoulders and leaned close in a valiant effort to make himself heard over the sound of the band.

Joe steadied the young Immortal, studying the desperate earnestness of Richie's expression and trying not to be overpowered by the smell of beer that permeated the two inches of atmosphere between them. "Take it easy, Rich."

"I can't...keep up with him. He's a machine, man. He's not...he's not human."

Joe shook his head resignedly. He should have known better than to send a boy to do a man's job. "I know, Rich, I know. You did your best. Go home and sleep it off. I'll take over for a while."

"You don't know, man. I've never...seen anything like it. How does he...how does he do it? I mean, he just keeps going and going...." Richie swallowed convulsively. "I think I'm going to ralph."

Joe stepped back hastily, and Richie made a wild dash toward the men's room, slowed only by the necessity of shouldering through the crowd that filled Maurice's bar. Joe sighed as the young man disappeared, then turned toward the abandoned figure sitting at a table in the corner, slouched over a half-empty glass of beer.

In the two weeks since Byron's death, Methos had spent most of his days and nights at that table, putting away more alcohol than Joe had ever seen anyone consume and live. He came in when the doors opened, sat there until closing, went home, and was back at opening next day. As far as Joe could determine, he did nothing else.

Joe sighed and moved to the bar. He was going to need some fortitude of the distilled variety for _this _conversation. Maurice met him carrying a bottle of his best Scotch and a glass. "A double, yes?"

"You're psychic, Maurice. A double, yes."

Maurice cast a surreptitious glance in Methos' direction. "You must stop him, Joe. He will kill himself."

Joe laughed shortly. "If he doesn't kill us first. Richie'll be out of action for a few days, if I'm any judge. I'm running out of babysitters."

Joe had been hard-pressed, between himself, Richie and Amanda, to keep an eye on Methos--and on Duncan MacLeod.

Joe sipped his whiskey, his mind running over the events, or rather the shocks, of the past few months. He had thought, until recently, that he was dealing with them well. He laughed softly into his booze. Bullshit. He hadn't even _begun_ to deal with them. They had come so thick and fast that he was only now beginning to acknowledge them, let alone understand their impact.

First, Adam Pierson was _not_ Adam Pierson, Watcher researcher, perpetual grad student and beer guzzler. He was Methos, world's oldest living Immortal--and beer guzzler. Okay, fine. No problem. Hey, Joe had known Adam for years and had never had a clue that he was Immortal, let alone the one Immortal that the entire world-wide Watcher network had been trying to locate for centuries. But live and learn, right?

And then all of a sudden Methos was _not_ Methos, world's oldest living Immortal and beer guzzler. He was Death of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a murderer and a rapist who had terrorized tens of thousands over the course of a millennium. Well, sure, no problem! Joe Dawson could handle anything. He'd been around. He'd been through the hell of 'Nam, seen things even Death of the Horsemen might appreciate, left his legs there as payment for the privilege, and come home sane.

And now...now Duncan MacLeod was _not_ Duncan MacLeod, courageous, noble-hearted defender of the defenseless and treasured friend; he was...Duncan MacLeod. A self-righteous, narrow-minded, judgmental bastard with a tendency to behead first and ask questions later, if ever. A man who banished from his life any of the guilty whom he could not bring himself to kill. No problem! Joe Dawson could handle it. He was tougher than he looked, and he looked pretty damn tough.

Joe took another swallow of whiskey. Served him right for putting both of them on a pedestal. What did he expect? He found himself grinning unexpectedly as his thoughts triggered a memory.

_Come on, Joe, what did you expect? Einstein? Freud? Buddha? I'm sorry, Joe, I'm just a guy_....

Yeah, well, that could be debated, but there was a good point in there somewhere. Immortals were neither angels nor demons. In some ways, they were more intensely _human_ than the mortals they pretended to be. The potential for eternal life coupled with the daily--no, hourly possibility of sudden death could make any man feel more vulnerable than he'd like to be. It could make him try to eliminate, or at least deal with, that vulnerability in ways that no one outside of his shoes could comprehend.

Joe looked over his shoulder at the figure sitting alone in the corner, his prominent nose now hidden in his glass of beer. Methos drained the glass and lowered it to the table, staring into space with the same listless, blank expression that had been worrying Joe for the past two weeks. It was as if Byron's death at MacLeod's hands had torn away every defense Methos had built against that terrible vulnerability.

Joe didn't fully understand why. Methos must have lost more friends and lovers, Immortal and mortal, than he could remember. But somehow this was different, and the difference might just get Methos killed. Sitting here like this in a public place, day after day, drunk...in Paris, a city that drew Immortals like bug-zappers drew bugs. Immortals that hunted for sport. Methos knew that better than anyone. Was he deliberately making himself a target?

And something was up with that damned Scot, as well. Ever since the night he'd killed Byron, he had holed himself up on the barge and had nothing to say to anyone. According to Amanda, he was suffering from nightmares so violent that he woke up screaming--not once, but several times during the night. He, too, was drinking heavily and not eating. When Amanda had tried to get him to talk, MacLeod had actually thrown her out.

Joe glanced at his watch. Amanda was probably checking up on MacLeod right now. Hopefully he wouldn't pitch her into the Seine. He sighed heavily, almost wishing that neither of these two men had ever come into his life. Almost.

Joe took a prolonged belt of his Scotch and, with a nod to Maurice, made his way across the room to stand beside Methos' table. "So ... how are we doing?"

Methos started, brought to sudden awareness, and glanced up in confusion. Joe's alarm grew at the sight. Being oblivious to his surroundings wasn't a luxury Methos had ever, to Joe's knowledge, permitted himself, drunk or sober. Methos quickly scanned the crowded bar, then glared up at Joe, mustering as much acid as his intoxication permitted.

"We? _We_ are doing just fine, thank you."

"Great!" With an effort, Joe beamed as if he had just heard the best news of his life. "Glad to hear it. Mind if I join you?"

Methos seemed to struggle against a smile for all of two seconds, then relented and waved his friend to a chair. Joe settled himself, setting his glass on the table before him, and momentarily turned his attention to the band. Maurice bustled by with a meaningful look in Joe's direction.

"So what happened to Richie?" asked Methos, with slightly overplayed innocence.

Joe eyed him reproachfully. "I imagine he's still hugging the bowl. You could have stopped him, you know. The kid doesn't have your...capacity."

Methos shrugged. "He said he wanted to keep me company."

"How many did he have?"

"Dunno." Methos' gaze drifted away for a moment, and his long fingers drummed against his empty glass. He caught Maurice's eye as the man rushed by and lifted the glass with a pleading expression. Maurice scowled and headed toward the bar.

"What do you think of the new band?" asked Joe conversationally, turning toward his friend as his Watcher's eye took in every detail of Methos' disheveled appearance.

Methos shrugged. "Not bad. You're better."

"Goes without saying," said Joe easily, his concern mounting at Methos' pallor and the dark circles under his eyes. His clothing was starting to hang on him even more loosely than usual.

Maurice appeared at Joe's elbow, filling Joe's empty glass and glaring at Methos long enough to make the absence of another beer painfully obvious. Joe groaned inwardly. Obviously Maurice had decided to take matters into his own hands.

Methos glanced up at the man inquiringly. "Out of beer, are we, Maurice?"

"Yes," returned Maurice fiercely. "I am out of beer. In the past two weeks, you have drunk it all. You are a cask, monsieur, a barrel, a vat. You are a menace to every honest bartender in Paris."

Methos nodded pleasantly, and Joe grinned in spite of himself. "Right. I'll have a beer."

Maurice gaped, momentarily nonplussed, then resumed his lecture with renewed vigor. "All day, all night! You will _kill_ yourself drinking like this, monsieur. Your friend Joe, he will have to bury you, yes? Think of him! You will break his heart." Maurice laid his hand on his chest melodramatically.

"Don't overdo it, Maurice," said Joe drily. "Ham and whiskey don't mix."

Methos snorted. "You have no eye for dramatic talent, Joe. I thought it was brilliant. I'm moved. Have you written an inscription for my tombstone yet?"

Joe snorted. "Yeah. But they want to charge me extra for carving 'smart-ass.'"

"Yeah, well, you get what you pay for," said Methos nonchalantly. He glanced up at Maurice, who had been listening to their exchange with uncomprehending exasperation in his face. "Oh, hi, Maurice. I'll have a beer."

"_No!_" shouted Maurice, drawing startled stares from the customers close enough to hear them over the crowd and the band. "You will have no more beer in my house!"

Methos shrugged. "All right. Bring me a bottle of what he's having, then." He gestured at Joe's whiskey.

Maurice groaned, and Joe laughed resignedly. "It's okay, Maurice. Just bring the man his beer."

Maurice cast one despairing look at Methos and disappeared into the crowd.

Joe cocked an eyebrow at Methos, shaking his head. "I don't know, pal. Things must be pretty bad when _Maurice_ won't sell his booze."

"Your point being?"

"My point being that you've spent the last two weeks drunk, and you look like hell. When was the last time you took a shower?"

"Do I offend?"

"Don't you always? When was the last time you ate?"

"You'll be a beautiful little mother someday, Joe."

"Hey, pal, I'm think I'm pretty damn beautiful now. You think it's easy sitting this close to you?"

Methos straightened himself in his chair, his hazy gaze sharpening. "Haven't you had enough of this?"

"Enough of what?"

Maurice appeared again, set a beer on the table with unnecessary force, and stalked off. Methos instantly curled his fingers around the glass. "This babysitting routine."

Joe grinned. "Do I offend?"

"You're nursemaiding me!" snapped Methos. "It isn't necessary. Do you think I've lived this long without having learned how to deal with losing friends?"

"I'm sure you _did_ learn it," said Joe pleasantly, refusing to be goaded. "I learned how to disassemble and reassemble an M-16 once. God help me if I had to do it now. It's amazing what you can forget if you don't use it for a while."

"God, Joe," sighed Methos. "I really hate it when you get metaphorical."

Joe hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward. "Look, Adam, I've tried to keep my mouth shut--"

"And this has obviously been quite a strain."

Joe bit back an angry retort and drew a breath. He was getting aggravated, which of course was precisely what Methos wanted. He wasn't going to fall for the master manipulator's games this time. "How long is this going to go on? You've been sitting here stoned out of your mind for two weeks. Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed? I mean, if that's all it is, let me know. I'll make up a sign for you to wear. You know, 'Take me, I'm yours.'"

Methos laughed bitterly. "Don't bother, Joe. I'm saving myself for someone."

Joe swore under his breath, understanding the allusion all too well. "MacLeod is not going to challenge you. He doesn't want to kill you."

"I know he doesn't," said Methos in an even tone. "But he has to. He's run out of substitutes."

"Geez, pal, you were right," growled Joe. "You're _not _Freud."

Methos snorted dismissively.

"MacLeod doesn't want to kill you. _You _want him to. You're guilting yourself over Byron."

Methos hoisted his glass with a crooked smile and a shrug. "Hey, I'll buy that. Guilt is as good an excuse as any."

"So since when do you do guilt?" demanded Joe, unnerved by the admission. "I thought that was MacLeod's act."

Methos toyed with his mug and said nothing.

Joe ignored the intricate and ghastly implications of his friend's silence and focused on the problem at hand. "So you're just going to sit here until some sword-slinger challenges you, huh? And then what? You let him take you, I suppose. That's just great. Another triumph for Duncan MacLeod's unerring sense of justice." Joe didn't bother to keep the bitterness from his tone.

"You don't think I deserve to die, Joe?" Methos' voice was barely above a whisper.

Something in Joe snapped at those words. "I don't make those calls! Who's to say _I_ don't deserve to die? You think _I've_ never crossed the line? Well, I have. And don't think that because I didn't call myself Death that I didn't dish it out--"

Methos reached out and laid a hand on Joe's arm, astonishment and concern in his face. "Joe--"

"Damn you both!" hissed Joe, then stopped to breathe, to control his anger and fear, to lower his voice. Enough. No, too much. "You listen to me. I don't know about justice, or about who deserves what. All I know is that you're trying to kill yourself and I've lost too damn many friends already--"

Joe lost his voice. He suddenly realized that he had no idea where those last few words had come from, but he suspected that they must have been on his mind for a long time. His vision blurred, and he drew a hand over his eyes, cursing himself thoroughly. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to have gone. He was supposed to be in control; you can't help a man who's lost it by losing it yourself. But the thought that Methos was actually sitting here waiting for a man who was once his closest friend to come along and kill him was not something he had expected to hear, not something he could stand to hear.

Joe steadied his breathing. Too little sleep, too much whiskey, too much Watching, too much....

"Joe, I don't want to die," whispered Methos, his hand tightening on Joe's arm, breath uneven and hazel eyes unusually bright. "Take it easy. Let's get out of here, okay?"

Joe tried to smile, to laugh, but failed. "Yeah, sure. Where?"

Methos rose with amazing steadiness and helped Joe to his feet. "My place. Come on, I'll make us both some coffee."

"Your coffee?" grumbled Joe, impatiently wiping the last traces of dampness from his face. "Oh, you _do_ want to die, pal. And you want to take me with you."

Joe was rewarded by Methos' slow grin as the ancient Immortal shrugged himself into his coat. "My coffee, like death, is an acquired taste."

Joe felt himself starting to breathe normally again. At least Methos was acting a little more like himself, although Joe couldn't imagine what had brought it about. He could only hope it would last. He hastily signaled to Maurice and threw some money on the bar. Maurice clasped his hands as if in thanksgiving and gazed heavenward.

Methos shook his head with a pained expression. "I may have been wrong about his acting. Let's go."

Methos followed Joe through the crowd and out the front door. The cool night air washed over them both. It was a pleasant evening, and the street was crowded with people coming in and out of the bars and clubs. Music hung and echoed in the air outside of open doors.

"I'll get us a cab," said Methos, stepping to the curb. "You look done in."

"Long day," agreed Joe, not wanting to let him know just how long it had been and why.

"Mind if I share it?"

Joe looked around to see Richie, looking like something the cat dragged in after the bus had run over it. He was white to the gills.

"Geez, Rich," said Joe lightly, torn between concern and laughter. "You, uh, don't look too good."

"No kidding," growled Richie.

"You look bloody awful," agreed Methos with a sort of nails-on-the-chalkboard cheerfulness.

"I _feel_ bloody awful, _Adam_," snapped Richie, glaring. "It's a _bloody_ set, okay? Can we get the _bloody_ cab now, so I can go home and _bloody_ throw up again?"

"Sure, Rich. Anything for a friend."

Richie's eyes narrowed dangerously and Methos turned toward the curb, one side of his mouth twitching.

Joe put an arm around Richie, laughing. "Relax, Rich. We'll drop you off at your place in a few minutes and you can barf to your heart's content."

"You're all heart, Joe. The next time you need a babysitter, just forget I exist, okay? You probably won't be far wrong." Richie took a deep breath through his mouth and exhaled, holding his stomach.

Snickering softly, Methos raised his arm to signal an approaching cab. A sound of squealing tires cut through the relative quiet as a black sedan barreled around the corner at high speed, cutting off the cab and nearly hitting another car in the process. The cab driver slammed on the brakes, blaring his horn, and the sedan swerved toward the curb, coming straight at Methos. Joe let out an inarticulate shout, and Methos leapt back, tripped and fell onto the pavement as the car jumped the curb and came to a screeching halt not two feet away from him. Joe gasped for breath. It was a miracle no one, including Methos, had been run over by the damn thing. A small group of people gathered around, staring at the car and talking excitedly.

Richie was at Methos' side before the car had stopped rocking. "Jesus, Adam, are you okay?"

"Ask me after I strangle him," gasped Methos furiously, scrambling to his feet.

"Easy," said Joe quickly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

A young man in his early twenties with blond hair and wild blue eyes vaulted out of the driver's seat and gestured wildly at Joe. "Dawson! Get in the car! Now!"

"Get in the car?" repeated Joe in amazement, recognizing Étienne Dupré, Jack Shapiro's assistant. "Are you crazy? What the hell do you think you're doing, Étienne? You could have killed some--"

"Get in the car!" screeched Étienne, obviously in a panic.

Joe stared at the boy, wondering what Shapiro was up to now. The reorganization of the Watchers after Jacob Galati's death had left the man virtually powerless, a research group head in Istanbul. Most of those who would have followed him in his war on Immortals were either reassigned where they could do no harm or expelled from the organization altogether. Joe hadn't seen or spoken to Shapiro since the day that MacLeod had spared his life, but he knew full well that the man's new duties did not include anything even remotely urgent in nature. What could Shapiro have told Étienne to put him in this state?

"What's going on, Étienne? What are you doing here? Is Shapiro in Paris?"

"There's no time for this! Get in the car _now_!"

Methos strode around the car to Étienne's side, and Joe followed as quickly as he could, fearing that the combination of beer and temper might get the better of his friend. He was relieved when Methos did not touch the boy, but leaned forward to speak in a cold, even tone.

"Joe is not going anywhere with you. The last time he accepted an invitation from your boss, he wound up with a gun to the back of his head."

If Étienne recognized Adam Pierson, or thought it odd that a complete stranger was privy to that knowledge, he didn't show it. "He has to come! It's an emergency!"

"Étienne, I am officially on leave," said Joe in as quiet a voice as he could manage. He was painfully aware of the crowd on the sidewalk, and wondered how long it would be before the police showed up. "Tell Jack to take his emergency and shove it where his head is. Come on, Adam."

"You're Pierson?" blurted the boy. "You have to come, too!"

"I am going to say this once," said Methos, eyes glinting. "I am _retired_. Joe is _on leave_. Neither of us is going with you. Neither of us has any interest whatsoever in anything Jack Shapiro has to say. Got it? Now I suggest you run along before one of these upstanding citizens calls the police."

"I'd be glad to," offered Richie drily.

Methos turned, took Joe by the arm and led him away from Étienne, but the young man followed them down the street, leaving the crowd of gapers behind. Richie tagged along behind them doggedly, and Étienne seemed too hysterical to care.

"You don't understand. He's alive! We found Johann Zwirner dead in the street outside our door!"

Joe stopped, shocked, and turned to look at Étienne. Joe knew Zwirner. A good man, a good historian...and the man European Headquarters depended on to keep an eye on Shapiro. He felt Methos' grip tighten on his arm. "Zwirner's dead? How? Who found him?"

Étienne's face convulsed as if he were going to be sick. "I did. I couldn't tell what killed him. He was in--in pieces."

Joe closed his eyes. "Pieces?"

"What do the police say?" asked Methos casually.

"They don't say anything. They don't know what we know! We found the missing Chronicle with the body. He had put the book in Johann's hand. It was lying on the doorstep. Just the hand, holding the book." The boy laughed wildly. "The rest of the pieces were lined up in a row...in the gutter...."

Richie put his hand to his mouth and moved quickly away.

"Whose Chronicle was it?" demanded Methos, his voice suddenly harsh.

Étienne stared at him in amazement. "Lucius! Lucius Germanicus. Gabriel's lost Chronicle. What the hell do you think I've been telling you?"

"God...." breathed Methos, visibly blanching. He dropped Joe's arm and turned away as if he had been struck.

Joe almost laughed in surprise. Lucius Germanicus? The Watcher's bogeyman? Good God. Shapiro must be really desperate to dredge up that old tale. His anger didn't find him until he realized that Jack Shapiro was obviously willing to use the death of Johann Zwirner for his own ends; that he'd gladly exploit one tragedy to orchestrate an even larger one.

Joe didn't spare Methos more than a glance. "Lucius Germanicus is dead, Étienne. He died over nine hundred years ago. What the hell does Shapiro think he's trying to pull? Did he really think I'd fall for this? You tell that son of a bitch that I'm not buying any ghost stories. And if he tries to use that monster to start his precious little war, he'll get more of it than he bargained for. You got that?"

"It's the truth!" cried Étienne in desperation. "I saw Zwirner, I saw the Chronicle! Only Lucius could--"

"He's lied to you, Étienne. He's using you to start this whole miserable business over again. Go back to Istanbul. And take your boss with you."

Joe turned toward Methos, who was leaning with both hands against the roof of a parked car. The sound of Richie's dry heaves echoed dully from behind the vehicle. Joe sighed, exhaustion registering in every muscle, and listened to the spasmodic retching provide a bizarre counterpoint to Étienne's retreating footsteps. "Well. Are we having fun yet?"

There was no response.

"Adam?"

Silence.

Alarmed, Joe came to stand close beside his friend. Methos' eyes were closed, his face strained and white. Joe very carefully laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Adam?"

Methos' eyes opened and he straightened, turning to Joe. He stared at him expressionlessly, wordlessly, and Joe felt his stomach drop.

"Oh," said Joe softly. "So...how much trouble are we in?"


	2. Chapter 2

“I think I’m dying,” moaned Richie weakly. “I really think I’m dying.”

 

“Anything I can do to help? Strangle you? Break your neck? Put my sword through your heart?”

 

“Get knotted, Methuselah,” snapped Richie, the weakness vanishing instantly. “Hey, Joe! Where’s my plop-plop fizz-fizz? I’m dying here!”

 

Methos gave the young man lying on Joe’s couch his most baleful stare, then turned away. The kid had been whining nonstop since they left the bar. The urge to put him out of his misery—and theirs—was overwhelming. Methos longingly contemplated the silence likely to follow Richie’s demise, then sighed and returned to darker thoughts.

 

“Coming! Keep your pants on!”

 

Methos closed his eyes against the exhaustion in Joe’s voice and turned his attention inward again. He pulled his knees more tightly to his chest and sank more deeply into the window seat, leaning his head against the window pane as he listened to the soft clatter of coffee mugs coming from Joe’s kitchen.

 

_Lucius is free._

“Here. Shut up and drink it. And don’t puke on my sofa, okay?”

 

“Relax, Joe. There can’t be much left in there to heave. Unless the bile starts coming up.”

 

“Thanks for sharing, pal.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

Methos forced his eyes open as he sensed Joe’s approach; he turned his head to see his friend hold out a cup of coffee with a rueful smile.

 

Even with five thousand years of experience, Methos still found Joe Dawson to be something of a wonder. He could count on his hands the people who had known him—_really _known him—and still called him friend. They had all been Immortals. It usually required the perspective of an Immortal to understand and accept both who Methos had been, and who he was now. And yet, amazingly, unwavering acceptance was at the heart of this mortal’s—this relative child’s—friendship. This man knew the worst of him, and yet it seemed to make no difference. If anything, Joe had drawn closer, offering his support even as Duncan MacLeod had yanked his away.

 

Methos forced his mouth into something approximating a smile and accepted the coffee, then watched as Joe settled wearily into his favorite chair, sighing deeply. Methos sipped the liquid in his cup mechanically, taking more pleasure in the warmth of the cup in his cold hands than the taste on his tongue.

 

_Lucius is free._

And Duncan MacLeod. Asleep or awake, there seemed to be no escape from the thought of him. The dreams had begun a couple days after the double quickening, and had become more frequent ever since. Methos was not particularly surprised; he had had similar experiences in the past. Some of Duncan’s memories had filtered through the quickening. Most of the resulting dreams had been vivid but pleasant. Nevertheless, dreaming about the man every night made it virtually impossible to dismiss him from his thoughts by day.

 

_Lucius is free. Why am I still here?_

In the old days he would have been gone—and gone long before now. Why had he been hanging about? Habit? Stubbornness? Death wish? Or worse, hope? Hadn’t he learned anything in the past fifty centuries?

 

_Lucius is free._

_We’re through._

Why had the thought of disappearing held no appeal for him? Why did Joe’s mother hen routine touch him so deeply? He was even starting to think he would miss the annoyance of Amanda’s surprise tea and sympathy visits, and the tedium of Richie’s excruciating cheerfulness as he tried in vain to make pleasant conversation over their beers. All three of these idiots had been driving him crazy with their exasperating kindness. He was five thousand years old; he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. That they evidently thought otherwise was patently absurd.

 

He hated it.

 

He loved it.

 

He loved _them_.

 

_Lucius is free._

Methos’ knowledge of profanity was profound, and he indulged in it liberally, silently cursing Duncan MacLeod in as many languages as he could. It had all started with that damned boy scout. Methos had been so busy trying to drill the basic concepts of survival into that thick Scottish skull that he hadn’t been aware of the toxic backwash until it was far too late to undo the damage. Without Methos realizing it, Duncan had somehow managed to contaminate him with some of his most quixotic notions, among them that friendship, no, _clan, _was worth any risk.

 

Any risk. Every time Methos shut his eyes, he could hear himself confirming Cassandra’s accusations with all the relish it would take to drive Duncan either to leave him or to challenge him: murder, rape and worse...for pleasure. He could see the searing play of emotions across Duncan’s face: hope, shock, disbelief, grief, rage. Methos had fully expected Duncan to try to take his head then and there.

 

But Duncan had walked away. Methos had known at that moment that their friendship could not survive that shock, although, for some unfathomable reason, some small part of him had hoped. He knew that Duncan’s order to Cassandra to let him live had been not so much an act of friendship as the return of a favor, an acknowledgment of Methos’ assistance in defeating the Horsemen.

 

And then Byron, dead at Duncan’s hands…. Methos stifled the thought; he’d been down that road too many times in the past two weeks. It led nowhere.

 

_Lucius is free._

Methos hadn’t laid eyes on Duncan since the night of Byron’s death. He could have left after Bordeaux. He hadn’t. He could have left after Duncan killed Byron. He hadn’t. Why? Duncan had made it very clear that Methos no longer held his respect or his trust. Their friendship was dead. And yet here he sat, unable to summon the will to sever the rest of the ties that held him to this place, even when his continued presence constituted a real and present danger. He shook his head imperceptibly, knowing, even as he considered the danger, that he could no more sever those ties now than he could sever his own arms. Why?

 

Did it matter? Lucius was free. How? When? Where was he? How had he found Zwirner? How had he—

 

“So are you guys going to tell me what’s going on?”

 

Methos opened his eyes and sighed, praying to a long-forgotten deity for the gift of silence to be bestowed upon the impossibly dense. He and Joe had a hell of a lot to discuss, and it wasn’t going to be easy if they had to stop and explain everything to MacLeod, Junior. His eyes met Joe’s, and the wry humor of the mortal’s expression quelled his irritation. He snorted and turned back to stare out the window.

 

“Rich, if we figure that out, you’ll be the first to know,” said Joe, shifting in his chair.

 

Richie downed the last of his Alka-Seltzer and sat up straight. “You’ve figured out enough to tell me why that guy was scared out of what passes for his mind. Why did he want you two to go with him? Who is Lucius?”

 

Joe hesitated, glancing at Methos. The ancient Immortal sighed and shook his head. “Go ahead and tell him, Joe. He’ll have to be told sooner or later, anyway. Besides, it might shut him up for a few minutes.”

 

“Thank you!”

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

“Guys,” said Joe mildly, “It’s late, I’m drunk, I’m tired, and I’m scared. Could we put a lid on the bullshit?”

 

Richie’s eyes widened slightly, and Methos drained the last of his coffee, cursing himself this time. How had he managed to wind up in this situation? How had he managed to put _Joe_ in this situation? Not just Joe. Richie. Amanda. Mac. Damn! If Lucius had captured a Watcher, then it was a given that he now knew everything that Watcher had known, and possessed all the records which that Watcher had possessed. Methos knew perfectly well that Zwirner hadn’t been simply a historian. He was the European Headquarters’ eyes and ears in Jack Shapiro’s office. He had been a regional coordinator himself once. He had names, photographs, locations.

 

“The ‘guy’ is Étienne Dupré, Jack Shapiro’s assistant.”

 

“The guy who tried to whack you. So what does he want with you and Adam?”

 

Joe shrugged. “When I first joined the Watchers, I was a historian. I did a lot of research on Lucius. I’m probably the closest thing they’ve got to an expert on the subject. And Adam followed up on my work.”

 

Methos noticed that his knuckles had gone white as he clutched his coffee mug, and he set the empty cup carefully on the window seat beside him.

 

Richie’s gaze traveled from Joe’s face to Methos’ profile and back again. “Okay. Now who’s Lucius? And why does Shapiro think that Lucius killed that Watcher?”

 

“Lucius....” Joe’s voice trailed off as he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. “Okay. Short version. Lucius was born in the fifth century AD, brought up by a noble family in Rome. That’s where he was recruited to the Watchers.”

 

“He was a _Watcher_?”

 

“Yup.” Joe sighed. “This was before his first death. He had no idea what he was. And neither did we.” Joe paused a moment, then continued quietly. “When Rome fell, he lost his family, his house, his wealth, everything. A friend recruited him.”

 

Joe hesitated.

 

“And?” prompted Richie.

 

“And he was assigned to Darius.”

 

“Darius. _Our_ Darius?”

 

“In a manner of speaking.”

 

Richie scowled. “What does that mean?”

 

Joe opened his eyes and gave Richie a sober look. “Just that the Darius you knew bears very little resemblance to the man Lucius was assigned to watch. Darius was a warrior. Some called him a butcher. He led his army from Germany across Gaul, plundering, killing, raping. He had taken a vow that he wouldn’t stop until he’d made his way across Europe to the sea. And he probably would have made it, too, if he hadn’t made the mistake of stopping at a little town called Lutetia.”

 

Richie shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

 

Methos laughed shortly. “You’re sitting in it, kid.” He turned back toward the window, whatever smart-ass rejoinder Richie was making drowned out by the roar of memory.

 

 

***

 

Methos warily scanned the shoreline of the island before him, vaguely aware of the river gently lapping at the toes of his boots. He was exhausted, filthy and hungry, and he allowed himself to become aware of that now, as he had not done during the long weeks of his journey. After the hunger, the fear, and the pain that he had endured to get here, he felt oddly out of place at the sight of the peaceful town across the river.

 

The journey from Rome had been more difficult than he had anticipated. The disintegration of the old empire had engendered chaos and tragedy on a scale that shocked Methos. It had been millennia since he had seen anything like it. War was everywhere. The countryside was rife with rumors of moving armies and slaughter. Armies of every conceivable description were on the march: the scattered remnants of Rome, the splintered factions of the Goths, the Gauls, the Franks, and of course the inevitable plethora of private armies, led by men who imagined that within disaster lay opportunity for wealth and power. The roads, such as they were these days, were filled with these armies, and with people fleeing the destruction of their homes. Roving bands of desperate, starving people routinely attacked unwary travelers for whatever they could steal.

 

Methos had been hard-pressed to see his charges safely to their destination, and had long ago realized that the price to which he had agreed for his services had not been nearly enough. The mercenaries Methos had hired had started to growl about too much danger for too little gold, and only their superstitious fear of the men they were escorting prevented them from drawing compensation from them by breaking open their coffers.

 

The journey had taken several weeks longer than it should have, not only because of the dangers of the road, but because they had been forced to escort a dignitary who insisted upon moving at a snail’s pace. Yet another week’s delay, and very little gold offered for the inconvenience. Methos knew he should have refused, but as the years had passed he had found it increasingly difficult to deny Father Sebastian anything.

 

They had encountered the Archbishop of Rheims and his entourage on the road when they were two weeks’ journey from Lutetia. The Archbishop’s party were attempting to fend off an attack by a half-dozen bandits, who had promptly taken to their heels at the sight of Methos and his well-armed mercenaries. The Archbishop, in an ecstasy of relief and gratitude, had declared Methos and his mercenaries to be a gift from God. Had Methos been in other company, such a remark would have provoked a suitably blasphemous response, but Sebastian’s presence curbed his tongue.

 

His Grace informed them that he had been asked by Clovis, King of the Franks, to baptize him and his entire army—in, of all places, Lutetia. When the Archbishop learned that this was Sebastian’s destination also, he requested that the two groups travel together for protection. Sebastian’s gracious acquiescence was a foregone conclusion; what the Archbishop asked for was not to be refused.

 

Secretly, Methos was glad of the prolongation of their journey. He felt...he _knew_ that their arrival in Lutetia would be the end of another life for him. Rome was dying, her great families fleeing to the East and taking the amassed knowledge of the Empire with them. The libraries were either gone east or plundered. The estates of the families with whom Methos had associated lay abandoned or were occupied by invaders or squatting peasants. And now his closest friend, Sebastian, had been sent into Gaul. There was nothing for him in Rome.

 

And he doubted that there could be anything for him in Lutetia. A provincial Roman town in the north of Gaul, it possessed nothing of interest to a scholar. Given the current political and military situation, it might possess something of interest to a warrior, but the taste of blood was no longer sweet to Methos; living by the sword was no longer a viable option. He no longer wished to be the man he had been.

 

Methos squatted by the river, picked up a small pebble, and threw it into the water, watching the concentric ripples as they spread across the surface. Cause: pebble breaking the surface of the water. And effect: a pattern of disturbance in the water. Observation and logic answered many questions, but not all. And it was those unanswered questions, questions of the nature of evil, and of good, of guilt and of innocence, of damnation and of redemption, that he had recently begun to ponder, and to discuss with, of all people, a Christian priest.

 

For Father Sebastian had an agile intellect, a profound education, and a unique perspective on Methos: he found him to be a good man. Methos had told him everything, of course. It was something Methos did to hurt himself every decade or so: let someone get close, then tell them the truth—a watch the disbelief turn to horror, the affection to disgust, the trust to dust. But Sebastian had simply listened, nodded, and poured Methos another glass of wine. Nothing changed, except that Sebastian had begun what became an ongoing debate between them: Proposed—that Methos is not inherently evil, that Methos is a worthy candidate for redemption, that Methos is deserving of love and happiness.

 

A preposterous assertion, and one only a lunatic Christian priest would dare to make, Methos had told him, and he had believed it when he’d said it. But that had been ten years ago, and Sebastian’s insistence was proving a more powerful influence on Methos’ opinion of himself than he would have deemed possible. Redemption….

 

As if on cue, Methos felt the familiar signature of another Immortal, an Ancient, and he smiled involuntarily.

 

“Good morning, Father.”

 

“Good morning, my son.” Father Sebastian came to stand at Methos’ side, pushing back the hood of his cassock and letting the dawn sun touch his silver hair and weathered face. “Still on guard for enemies, Marcus? We are within Clovis’ boundaries now.”

 

“Exactly,” said Methos drily, standing up.

 

Sebastian shook his head reprovingly. “The king would not permit harm to come to a delegate of Rome—and certainly not to his Grace the Archbishop of Rheims—on the very eve of his conversion to the faith.”

 

Methos snorted. “Because his faith is so pure and true?”

 

“Because without the support of the episcopate, his planned conquest of the remainder of Gaul will fail,” returned Sebastian.

 

Methos laughed, delighted. The man never ceased to surprise him. “Sebastian, for shame! Such cynicism. You doubt the existence of faith, then?”

 

“By no means,” said Sebastian softly, with a small smile. “I have faith in faith.”

 

Methos grinned. “Your logic is unsound, Priest. I challenge you: postulate a logical proof of the existence of faith.”

 

Sebastian pursed his lips, staring across the river at the town, then laughed very softly. “Very well. Given: Methos exists. Yes?”

 

Methos sighed, sensing yet another round of persuasion in the offing. “Occasionally.”

 

“No equivocations, youngster. Does or does not Methos exist?”

 

“He exists.”

 

“Also given: there have been times in his life when, from pain, and weariness, and self-loathing, he has desired _not_ to exist. Yes?”

 

Methos turned away in silence. Sebastian knew the answer to that question.

 

“Yes,” said Methos quietly.

 

“Also given: Methos knew the means to end his existence. Yes?”

 

“Sebastian—”

 

“Yes or no?”

 

“You Christians are so—”

 

“This was _your_ idea, child.”

 

“Yes, damn you!”

 

“And yet Methos did _not _end his existence. Yes?”

 

“Yes,” said Methos wearily. He should have known better than to start this.

 

“Then I postulate that faith prevented him from doing so.”

 

Methos stared at the priest for a moment, then howled with laughter. “Faith? In what? That’s not a proof of faith, Sebastian. It’s a proof of cowardice.”

 

Methos’ laughter was brought to an abrupt halt as Sebastian slapped his cheek. Not hard—the sort of tap a stern parent would administer to an erring child to get their attention. Methos stared at Sebastian, startled, his hand to his slightly stinging cheek.

 

Sebastian spoke gently. “It _is_ a proof of faith. Faith in the power of redemption. Faith in those who love you. Faith in yourself. This is your salvation.”

 

“I thought you meant faith in your God,” whispered Methos.

 

“My God is all those things and more,” said Sebastian tenderly, laying his hands on Methos’ shoulders. “My dear son, I know how difficult this journey has been for you. To leave your studies, to expose yourself to the call of battle again after all these years...and for me....”

 

Methos opened his mouth to say that he was simply in need of the gold...and stopped, unable to look in the old man’s eyes and utter a lie of that magnitude. It hadn’t been the gold. When Sebastian had told him that he was being sent to Lutetia, Methos had known it was a death sentence. He couldn’t imagine what the old man could have said or done to offend the Bishop of Rome, but Sebastian did have a reputation for treading that fine line between original thought and heresy. To send an old man—Sebastian had been nearly sixty when he had suffered his first death—on such a journey with one acolyte and a half-dozen mercenaries as his only protection would certainly have resulted in capture, torment, perhaps death, if by chance or design his head had been taken.

 

Methos had found himself unable to let that happen. The old man had beguiled him from the hour of their first meeting in the library of a mutual friend, eleven years ago. Methos had been intrigued by him from the first, not only because Sebastian was a fellow scholar, and the first Immortal he had met who had converted to Christianity, but also because he was the first Immortal he had met who was older than himself. Methos had begun to wonder if _he_ were not the oldest. It was a strange relief to know that he was not. To listen to the stories of one with greater experience than himself, to tell his stories in return, and to receive the sort of understanding that only experience can teach, had been a completely unexpected joy—and yet another kind of healing.

 

“It wasn’t for you,” growled Methos with a scowl, unable to give voice to his feelings. “It was for the helpless armies infesting Gaul. Do you imagine I would set a Christian priest at their innocent throats? You’d have them all laying down their arms and worshiping your carpenter God inside a month, and Clovis would have their heads in a day.”

 

“As long as a month?” returned Sebastian with a grin that told Methos that the old man was not deceived in the slightest. “You underestimate me, my friend. I would….”

 

His words trailed away, and Methos stiffened as the muted signature of a pre-Immortal touched him. He turned to survey the riverbank, upstream and down, but saw nothing.

 

“Marcus!”

 

 

***

 

“Methos! Earth to Methos. Come in, Methos!”

 

Methos realized that he was staring at the empty wall over Richie’s head, and he turned his gaze to Joe, who was regarding him gravely.

 

“You ought to hang something on that wall, Joe,” Methos said in a conversational tone. “Maybe a stuffed head of some sort. I’d be glad to hunt one up for you—”

 

“Nah,” said Joe casually, the corners of his mouth twitching. “They are _ugly_, man.”

 

“What, heads? Well, I suppose some people’s are.”

 

“Cute, guys. Very cute,” snapped Richie, and leaned back into the couch in a fine MacLeodian sulk.

 

Joe went on as if Richie hadn’t spoken. “Those things give me the creeps, always staring at you with those big, sad glass eyes. Like they’re trying to make you feel guilty for whacking ’em, you know?”

 

“Doesn’t bother me,” said Methos cheerfully. “If you don’t want to look at the eyes, you could always put its motorcycle helmet on it, with the visor down.”

 

Joe looked interested. “Yeah? That’s not a bad idea.”

 

“It’d make a great conversation piece.”

 

“Yeah, but wouldn’t it, like, attract bugs?”

 

“No more than it does now.”

 

“How much do you think that’d run me?”

 

“You guys ought to take this show on the road,” cut in Richie impatiently. “Come on, Joe, tell the story. This is the legend Mac told me about, right? When Darius came to the gates of Paris?”

 

“Most legends have some basis in fact,” said Joe, his eyes seeking Methos’ inquiringly.

 

Methos’ gaze drifted back to the window. “What did MacLeod tell you about this legend, Richie?”

 

Richie shrugged. “That Darius came to the gates and fought a priest there, an Immortal—the oldest Immortal of his time. That Darius won, and took the priest’s quickening, and it changed him. He disbanded his army and spared the city.”

 

Methos couldn’t restrain a bark of acid laughter. “Instant redemption. Just add quickening and stir. And MacLeod believes this tale, does he?”

 

“Why shouldn’t he? Are you saying it’s not true?” Richie’s tone was almost belligerent.

 

“Of course it is,” said Methos harshly. “Most legends have some basis in fact, right? Tell him the _legend_ of Lucius, Joe.”

 

“I think you have more to tell than I do,” said Joe, so wearily that Methos cursed himself again. Whatever had happened or was going to happen wasn’t Joe Dawson’s doing.

 

Methos unfolded himself from the window seat and crossed to Joe, taking his empty coffee cup in unspoken apology. “More?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Methos withdrew into the kitchen, feeling Joe’s eyes on his back, and dreading the man’s perceptiveness. This Watcher knew him too damned well. Since when was he such an open book? Methos shook his head as he poured the coffee, listening to Joe’s thoughtful silence and Richie’s impatient shifting on the sofa.

“So,” said Richie after a few seconds of silence. “What’s the legend?”

 

Joe met Methos’ eyes as he re-entered the room. Methos managed a smile, handed Joe his cup, and retreated into the window seat again, perfectly aware that Joe was observing his every move. How much did Joe really know about Lucius? Apart from a list of his victims, not much, probably. Methos had seen what was in Lucius’ file and in the history Joe had written. Methos’ own contribution to that record had been minimal; a couple of facts germane to time and place, nothing more. That was all Joe could _know_. But he probably suspected a good deal more.

 

“Lucius is sort of...the Watchers’ bogeyman,” said Joe quietly.

 

“A bogeyman?” Richie laughed. “You mean, like the monster under the bed?”

 

“Mine was always in the closet. But yeah. A monster.”

 

Methos launched himself out of the window seat and paced the length of the room, choking back the ancient anger that threatened to sever his control. He could feel Joe’s eyes on him again, and knew that the simple language of his movement had betrayed his emotional state. He continued to pace, not trusting his voice.

 

Joe spoke softly. “Let’s hear it, Adam.”

 

Methos reached the far end of the room and swung toward his friends, knowing he was not yet in control of his reactions and, at that moment, not caring.

 

“He was not a monster.”

 

Joe, who had been in the act of raising his coffee to his lips, lowered it again with a look of well-measured surprise.

 

“Come again? You know as well as I do—”

 

“I know better than you do,” said Methos in an uneven tone. “I know all about monsters.”

 

Joe set his coffee cup down on the table beside him, his expression torn between the man’s instinctive compassion and an obstinacy born of fear. “Adam—”

 

“Is this about Lucius or about you?”

 

Methos turned toward the couch, startled. “What?”

 

Richie met his gaze squarely, looking to Methos as if he had matured a century in the past two minutes. Richie pointed at the older man. “Lucius, or you?”

 

“It’s about both of us,” snapped Methos, feeling confused.

 

“So you’re both monsters.”

 

“No!”

 

“So you’re both _not_ monsters.”

 

Methos stared at the child, straining to see the glow of ancient wisdom past the sparkle of youthful cleverness...expecting, for one fleeting second, to see Sebastian. “I don’t know,” he stammered, taken aback.

 

“Why don’t you tell us what happened, then?” continued Richie calmly.

 

Methos shook himself, unnerved. The boy was full of surprises. MacLeod’s training? No, somehow it didn’t feel like MacLeod. Who else would have had that sort of influence?

 

Methos received the answer to his question in a flash of comprehension, and turned away sharply to resume his pacing. “No. No. Go ahead, Joe, tell him.”

 

“Are you sure?” Joe sounded uncertain. “Adam, if there’s something you need to say—”

 

“Tell him! Tell him what _you _need to say. My say has waited nine hundred years, it can wait a few more minutes.”

 

Richie’s eyes went to Joe. “Okay. What did he do?”

 

Joe set his cup on the table beside him, clearly reluctant to speak. Methos could _feel_ the man’s gaze, his concern for the impact his words would have. “He killed Watchers, wherever he could find us. As many as he could and as slowly as he could.”

 

Richie picked up his empty glass and fingered it nervously. “A lot of you?”

 

“Over two thousand of us,” said Joe in a bleak tone that grated on Methos’ nerves.

 

“Two _thousand_?” Richie’s eyes widened.

 

Methos briefly fought a bitter laugh at the shocked look on the boy’s face, then succumbed. “Yes. Only two thousand. Lucius never had a true talent or inclination for slaughter. An amateur, really. Now if I had had his opportunities—”

 

Joe closed his eyes, and Methos cut himself off.

 

“Methos,” said Richie sharply, “Give it a rest, okay?”

 

“You,” snarled Methos, aggravated again, “are not getting it, kid.”

 

“I,” snapped Richie, “am getting it just fine. It’s _you_ that’s not getting it. This is Joe’s story, so Death...take a holiday.” Richie jerked a thumb in the direction of the window seat.

 

Joe made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh masked by a cough, then cleared his throat as Methos’ narrowed eyes swept him scathingly.

 

“Fine.” Methos ignored Richie’s direction, and continued to pace the room, arms folded over his chest, eyes memorizing the pattern of Joe’s carpet. “Tell it, Joe.”

Richie looked to Joe encouragingly. “Two thousand,” he prompted softly.

 

“Yeah, well, it took him six hundred years,” Joe continued in the same strange monotone that had disturbed Methos before. “Starting in 496 A.D. He was as regular as clockwork. Winter, spring, summer, fall. One Watcher each season. Four Watchers each year. They’d go missing, then the bodies would be delivered—in pieces. Some of the pieces were...partially eaten. He had the pieces delivered to the Watchers of Rome on these beautiful little silver platters. We still have the platters. Did you ever see the platters, Adam?”

 

Methos stopped pacing, the fear in Joe’s voice breaking through his anger. “Joe—”

 

“Did you know him?” Joe’s voice was no more than a whisper now.

 

Methos nodded, turning away from the rest of the anguished questions in his friend’s face. “A long time ago.”

 

 

***

 

“Marcus Gaius!”

 

The bellow came from their camp, a few dozen yards away, and Methos recognized the voice of Rufus, the leader of his Roman mercenaries.

 

“Now what?” he muttered, glancing at Sebastian. “Come, we’d best see—”

 

“Marcus Gaius! A rider! A stranger!”

 

“Coming!”

 

Swearing under his breath, Methos headed back to camp at a brisk pace, not trusting Rufus to identify the rider before attacking. They had nearly been killed half-a-dozen times because of the man’s rashness and stupidity. For all they knew, it was a messenger from Clovis, or from the deans of the Church in Lutetia. Methos quickened his steps, aware that Sebastian was at his heels and probably thinking the same thing.

 

They strode hastily through the silent camp; not even the Archbishop’s servants had stirred yet. _Just as well, _thought Methos, passing through the last of the tents and wagons to come to a halt beside Rufus and another of his men. Rufus glanced at him warily, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword, and with his other hand pointed to the rider coming towards them at full gallop.

 

“That’s no messenger,” murmured Sebastian in Methos’ ear, and Methos nodded. The man rode like a Roman soldier. But he was alone, and not attempting to conceal his approach. Methos felt himself tensing nonetheless.

 

“Get me a horse,” he said to Rufus. The man stared at him for a moment, then sprinted away.

 

“My friend, is this wise?” whispered Sebastian. “We have no idea—”

 

“Better that we find out before he reaches us,” said Methos shortly, then looked at Sebastian and smiled, realizing belatedly that the old man had been speaking out of concern for his safety. “I’ll be fine. He’s only one man.”

 

“One man is enough to take your head, if he is of the cult of the One.”

 

Methos snorted. Sebastian had some unorthodox views regarding the Game. “I have no intention of slipping away to some secluded spot with an armed stranger, never fear. He will not challenge me before so many eyes.”

 

Sebastian nodded, his eyes traveling to the still-distant rider. “Something about this troubles me, Marcus. Something....”

 

Methos sighed impatiently, even though he shared the old man’s unease. He was in no mood for one of Sebastian’s visions at the moment. “Tell me about it later, Sebastian.” Rufus appeared with Methos’ horse, and Methos swung himself into the saddle. “Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

 

Sebastian nodded absently. “Go with God, Marcus.”

 

“Which one?” returned Methos with a provocative grin, and Sebastian shook his head reprovingly, merriment in his eyes.

 

“I shall convert you yet, heathen child. Be gone!”

 

Methos laughed aloud and urged his horse forward into a gallop.

 

It took no more than a few minutes, at that speed, to intercept the incoming rider. When the stranger was within a few yards, he reined in his horse, which came to a halt, trembling with exhaustion.

 

“I seek His Grace the Archbishop of Rheims,” shouted the man, his voice cracking with tension.

 

Methos halted his horse a few feet away, his gaze sweeping a tall, broad man with a mane of wild blond hair and a pair of brilliant blue eyes. His clothes were well made, but much worn and dirtied with the mud, blood and dust that spoke of many travels and many battles. As the man met Methos’ eyes, the Immortal realized with a shock that this stranger was no stranger.

 

“Lucius?”

 

Lucius stared at Methos for several seconds, and then his face lit up. “Marcus! God be praised!”

 

Both men dismounted, and before Methos could offer his hand, he found himself pinioned in the huge man’s embrace while Lucius’ infectious laughter rolled down his ear.

 

“Never did I think to see you, of all men, in the wilds of Gaul! What brings you here? Do you know where I can find his Grace? How—”

 

“Lucius, may I breathe now?” gasped Methos, trying gently to extricate himself from the blond giant’s arms.

 

Lucius relaxed his hold and held Methos at arms’ length, surveying him fondly. “Ten years is too long, Marcus.” He peered into Methos’ face. “By our Lord, man, you’ve not aged a day! Are you sure you’re not one of those we Watch?” The man burst into unrestrained laughter.

 

Methos managed a weak smile. Someday soon Lucius would have to know the truth. The opportunity had simply never presented itself. Before he could say anything, Lucius continued, “You must tell me everything about yourself, but first, you must help me find His Grace.”

 

“You’ve found him,” said Methos, puzzled. “He’s sound asleep a few yards away. Why—”

 

“Thank God! Marcus, we must warn him.”

 

“Warn him of what? Lucius, what are you doing here? The last I heard of you, you had been assigned to....” The import of his train of thought struck him, and he stiffened. “Have you left the Watchers?” he asked sharply.

 

Lucius laughed, clearly puzzled. “After all the trouble you took to persuade them to accept me? Of course not.”

 

“Lucius, this is serious! How close is Darius?” snapped Methos. “And what the hell are you doing away from him?”

 

“He is no more than a day’s ride from here. And I am here to warn His Grace. Darius knows of Clovis’ plans for his baptism. He knows it is not in his interests to see Gaul united under a Christian prince, with the support of the Church. He comes to take Lutetia. He comes to kill anyone whose death will prevent Clovis’ conversion.”

 

“And is Darius aware of your knowledge of his plans?” Methos found his hand on the hilt of his sword without realizing it.

 

Lucius scowled. “Of course he is. I am one of his closest counselors.”

 

Methos caught his breath in surprise. “His _counselor_? You are supposed to be his _Watcher_.”

 

“How could I learn about him without becoming close to him? How could I become close to him without being of value to him?”

 

Methos shook his head, cursing inwardly. He should never have permitted Lucius to be removed from the protected environment inhabited by the Watchers’ scholars. There his impulsiveness and lack of judgment could be controlled, there he could be protected. But the Masters of the Watchers of Rome had felt that a man of Lucius’ prestigious upbringing and military training, a man who had lost all he had had in Rome, was perfectly suited to watch Darius. He would be accepted in Darius’ army of disenfranchised Roman soldiers, they had argued. He would rise in the ranks; he would be able to observe Darius as no other Watcher had before him.

 

Well, they had been correct. Not one of Darius’ other Watchers had ever proved this foolish.

 

“Listen to me, Lucius. You must go back to Rome now.”

 

Lucius stared at him. “Why? Methos, you should see my chronicle! I have learned things about Darius that the Watchers have wondered about for centuries! He trusts me! He tells me everything— his past, his plans for the future!”

 

“And just what do you imagine will be his reaction when he discovers that his trust has been betrayed?” demanded Methos impatiently.

 

“His trust has not been betrayed,” snapped Lucius. “If Clovis has decided that it is in his interests to become a Christian, then that is what he will do. Taking Lutetia will not prevent that, unless Clovis is killed. And if Clovis is killed days before his conversion, the Church and all the Christian princes of Europe will unite against Darius. They will hunt him down and destroy him.”

 

“And you say you have not left the Watchers?” said Methos incredulously.

 

“You know I have not!”

 

“No, I do not,” snapped Methos. “A Watcher observes and does not interfere. Whether Darius is hunted down or not is not your concern.”

 

Lucius drew himself up indignantly. “It _is_ my concern. In order for my research to continue, Darius must survive.”

 

“Lucius, listen to me! It is _your_ survival that is in jeopardy now. You have been playing too dangerous a game.”

 

“Our Masters would not have assigned me to Darius if they believed I was not equal to the task,” returned Lucius. “I have been sending my reports to Rome. If they believed me to be in danger they would have found some way to warn me.”

 

“Gods above and below, man, _I _am warning you! The Masters had no idea that you would grow this close to Darius. Even if they know now, don’t imagine that their silence is due to their confidence in your safety.”

 

Lucius moved toward his horse, obviously angered. “That remark is unworthy of you, Marcus. The Masters deserve better from you. Do you trust no one, then?”

 

“I trust my common sense,” said Methos harshly, grabbing his old friend by the arm. “Do you imagine that Darius hasn’t noticed that one of his most senior officers has been missing for the better part of two days on the eve of a major attack?”

 

“Of course he has. I told him I was going to scout the approaches to Lutetia.”

 

“And when it becomes obvious that warning was given? You were a field commander once. What would your conclusion have been?”

 

“I _am_ a field commander,” said Lucius stiffly, yanking his arm away from Methos’ grasp. “I thank you for your concern, Marcus. You will make certain that my warning reaches His Grace?”

 

Lucius turned to mount his horse, but Methos stepped between animal and rider determinedly. “Don’t be a fool! Damn it, Lucius, I’m trying to keep you alive! Even if you manage to fool him this time, eventually your luck will run out.”

 

Lucius sighed and laid his hands on Methos’ shoulders affectionately. “Marcus, I understand that you wish me to be safe. But pardon me, my friend—you are a scholar, not a warrior. You do not understand men of war as I do.”

 

Methos exploded into edged laughter, every possible response to Lucius’ assertion crowding into his mind. Visions of a thousand years of slaughter and burning, terror and torture, rape and brutal domination paraded past his mind’s eye in lurid detail. He could tell this child-warrior tales that would certainly convince him to take his opinion of Darius seriously...if Lucius believed them. But no tale would ever shatter the faith that Lucius held in those who had assigned him to Darius. He was a true Roman soldier; respect for and obedience to those in authority was too deeply ingrained in him for anything Methos might say to dissuade him from his present course. Sooner or later, Lucius would be caught; sooner or later Lucius would be killed. Darius would have no compunction whatsoever about taking the head of a pre-Immortal who did not even know what he was. If Lucius were lucky, Darius would do so without any of the brutal preludes for which he had become legendary.

 

That thought killed Methos’ laughter. He became suddenly aware of the puzzled, slightly hurt expression on his friend’s face, and he drew a steadying breath for one last attempt. “Lucius, please believe me. I understand Darius better than you could possibly imagine—enough to know that he would not be able to wield such power without being able to sense when someone close to him threatens it.” Methos lay a hand on Lucius’ arm, gently this time. “Go back to Rome, Lucius. Please.”

 

Lucius smiled, and Methos’ heart sank. “I cannot, Marcus. Watching Darius is my duty. But don’t worry. I will be careful.”

 

Methos knew, as soon as he heard the word “duty,” that he had lost his friend, and he stood aside silently as Lucius mounted his horse.

 

“Be well, Marcus,” called Lucius over his shoulder as he rode away.

 

Methos turned toward his own mount, laid his hands on the saddle, then bowed his head. “Go with God, Lucius.”

 

 

***

 

“Go with God.”

 

Methos suddenly realized that he had spoken the words aloud, and his gaze traveled from one uncomprehending face to the other, fighting a sheepish smile. “Ah….”

 

“Okay,” said Richie. “Was that trip really necessary?”

 

“Rich, can it,” growled Joe. He gave Methos one of his most searching looks. “You okay?”

 

Methos nodded, then realized that he had folded his arms over his chest so tightly that it hurt. He let his arms drop to his sides and stood quietly for a moment, breathing deeply.

 

“Stretch out for a few minutes,” said Joe sternly. “Rich, move it.”

 

“I’m fine,” muttered Methos, studying the carpet again as Richie got up, looking as worried as Joe.

 

“Lie. Down.” Richie enunciated each word distinctly, as if speaking to the intellectually impaired, and gestured helpfully to indicate the appropriate piece of furniture.

 

Methos raised his eyes to scowl at the child, but didn’t move. “You know, you two should adopt.”

 

“Lie down!” snapped Joe, gesturing toward the couch with his cane. “Christ Jesus, you’re getting as pigheaded as MacLeod!”

 

“Worse,” said Richie drily. “Come on, geezer, age before beauty. See? It won’t hurt you. It’s a _nice_ couch.” The young man patted the cushions invitingly. “Don’t be afraid. They can sense that, you know.”

 

Joe cackled, and Methos swore in exasperation, pushing Richie aside to throw himself on the couch.

 

“There! All right? Are we happy now?”

 

Richie grinned broadly and folded himself to sit cross-legged on the floor near Methos’ feet, obviously well pleased with himself.

 

Methos settled himself comfortably, allowing the muscles that had been knotting during the past hours to relax slightly, and barreled ahead before the idiots could distract him with any more of their absurdities. “I met him in Rome. I don’t remember the year. It’ll be in my journal...sometime after 476.”

 

“Fall of Rome,” said Joe softly.

 

Methos snorted. “Rome didn’t _fall_. Rome got itself drunk, staggered, and was pushed off a cliff. But yes, that was when the last of the emperors was deposed by some German or other. The family who had raised and sponsored Lucius fled to Constantinople. The Roman army, where he had made his career, was ostensibly gone. He had nothing and no one. When I met him, he was hiring himself out as a mercenary. He hated it—said it was without honor.”

 

“Was it?” asked Richie seriously.

 

“Wouldn’t know, kid. I don’t do honor.”

 

Richie rolled his eyes without comment.

 

“So where did you meet him?” asked Joe, making a visible effort to remain awake.

 

“Brothel,” said Methos with matter-of-fact succinctness, eyeing their reactions.

 

Joe perked up. “Say again?”

 

Richie’s eyes widened. “Yeah?” He grinned. “You a regular customer?”

 

“Who said anything about being a customer?”

 

Methos howled with silent laughter as Joe’s jaw dropped and Richie’s face went from pink to a florid shade of magenta. God, it was almost as much fun as teasing MacLeod.

 

Joe pointed his cane at him, eyebrows raised and voice stern. “We are _not_ going there, pal.”

 

Methos started to laugh aloud, relenting. “I was kidding, Joe...really.”

 

“Don’t give me ‘really’ and don’t give me brothels tonight, okay? It’s too late and I’m too tired and I don’t have my camcorder.”

 

“He _is_ kidding, isn’t he?” muttered Richie to Joe.

 

“Rich, I was kidding. I was not a prostitute in late fifth-century Rome,” said Methos with pointed precision, unable to resist one last shot. Let the kid wonder; it would broaden his outlook on life.

 

Richie sighed, evidently deciding not to go there either, and shook his head. “Okay, fine. You met Lucius in a brothel. And...?”

 

“And what? We got drunk and whored around. Rome was a great place for getting drunk and whoring around in those days. Not a bad place for it _these_ days, come to think of it.” Methos found it easier, somehow, not to meet either of those pairs of blue eyes at the moment, and briefly wished he had gotten drunk at home that night.

 

“Adam,” said Joe gently. “Why don’t you just tell us what you’re trying so hard not to tell us? It’s like having a tooth out—the anticipation’s usually worse than the pull.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” sighed Methos, closing his eyes again.

 

“You can.”

 

“You’re not going to like it.”

 

“I’ll deal.”

 

Methos took another deep breath, trying not to think about how far Joe might be willing to go to avoid hearing what he had to learn tonight. He opened his eyes and looked at Joe. “I wasn’t using the name Methos when I met Lucius. I was using Marcus.”

 

“Marcus.” Joe looked at him blankly for one moment, then leaned forward with wide eyes. “Marcus _Gaius_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Jesus,” said Joe in a stunned voice.

 

“Ahhh...excuse me,” cut in Richie, raising a hand.

 

“I’m sorry, Joe.”

 

“Why the hell didn’t you—no, don’t answer that. I know why you didn’t tell me. Shit! Why didn’t I put this together before?”

 

“Excuse me.” Richie raised his voice slightly.

 

“Come again?” Bewildered by Joe’s reaction, Methos swung his long legs off the couch, nearly swiping Richie’s nose with his feet. He had expected recrimination, but there was nothing but flabbergasted distress in Joe’s manner. “Put what together?”

 

“You’re the Marcus Gaius that recruited Lucius to the Watchers.” Joe spoke slowly, as if trying to absorb the fact.

 

“Yes. I was the one, Joe.” Methos searched his friend’s face for anger and, to his confusion, found none.

 

“Oh,” said Richie weakly.

 

“Then you’re the Marcus Gaius that took a leave of absence to escort…an old friend to Lutetia?”

 

Methos gaped at the non sequitur, his mind racing. He had never stated the reason for his leave of absence from Rome. Where the hell did Joe get that information?

 

“That’s not in the Watcher records,” said Methos a little sharply, leaning forward. “How do you know that?”

 

Joe didn’t answer, but stared at Methos as if he were seeing him for the first time. Then, as if he couldn’t sit still any longer, he pulled himself out of his chair and moved, with a gait that clearly showed his exhaustion, to stare out the window that Methos had abandoned.

 

Richie’s gaze traveled from Joe to Methos with a worried, inquiring expression, but Methos couldn’t spare him a glance. He rose from the sofa and moved across the room to stand behind Joe, hesitantly laying a hand on the Watcher’s shoulder. The window in front of them mirrored eyes that were very far away, haunted. For the first time that evening, Methos considered the possibility that Joe knew more about Lucius than he had ever let on, more than he had written in his history.

 

“Joe,” said Methos gently. “Talk to me.”

 

Joe turned back to him, and Methos could clearly see the dark circles under the man’s eyes, his strangely grieved expression. Methos stood still as Joe searched his face for a few seconds, each passing moment convincing the Immortal that this man knew more than he possibly could.

 

“So,” said Joe finally, breaking eye contact, “You were there when it all started.”

 

“When _what_ all started?” asked Methos pointedly, trying one more time to draw his friend out.

 

“The rampage.” Joe moved away from Methos and sank heavily back into his chair.

 

Methos briefly considered pressing the matter, then dismissed the thought. If Joe had decided to conceal this from him, then he must have a damn good reason. Did it really make any difference where the information came from? If Joe already knew most of this, so much the better. 

 

“I was there,” replied Methos tiredly, resuming his prone status on the sofa.

 

“Why did he do it?” Richie’s voice was very soft, almost tentative. Methos could see that the youngster knew perfectly well that something had passed him by, and that he was willing to let it go...at least for now. Smart kid. Smarter than his teacher.

 

“Lucius?” Methos drew a breath. “He did it because he felt he’d been betrayed.”

 

“By the Watchers,” guessed Richie, looking to Joe. “_Was_ he betrayed?”

 

Methos looked to Joe, who turned his head enough to meet his gaze. After a few seconds of silence, Joe answered in a strained tone. “When I first joined the Watchers...when I did my first research on Lucius, I didn’t think so. I thought he’d crossed the line and paid the price. That he’d trashed his oath and then tried to blame his superiors for sending him to watch Darius in the first place.”

 

“And now?” asked Methos, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to him that Joe’s opinion of Lucius might have changed since writing that report thirty years ago.

 

“Now I think he was screwed,” said Joe shortly.

 

“What happened?” asked Richie into the silence following Joe’s statement.

 

Methos closed his eyes, wondering if Joe would answer.

 

Richie repeated his question, less patiently this time. “What happened?”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“What happened?”

 

Methos started out of his reverie, glancing up from the shatranj board in confusion. “What?”

 

Sebastian smiled, shaking his head. “What happened between you and the rider, Marcus? You’ve not been yourself since you spoke to him.”

 

Methos snorted. “What makes you say that?”

 

“Because I am about to defeat you at this pagan game of war you’ve taught me,” returned the priest merrily. “You do not do your Persian masters honor today, my friend.”

 

Methos scanned the board quickly, astonished to find himself cornered on all fronts. “Obviously not,” he growled. “My masters would have _caught_ you cheating, priest.”

 

“So should _you_ have, had you been paying attention to the game,” laughed Sebastian. He sobered almost instantly, his dark brown eyes searching Methos’ face. “You are thinking of Darius?”

 

Methos looked away and back to the board, searching for a way out of the trap he found himself in, both there—and in Lutetia. “Isn’t everyone?” He managed to force a light conversational tone.

 

“The Archbishop is confident that Clovis will respond to his message with enough men at arms to defend the city.”

 

“The Archbishop’s confidence is balm to my troubled spirit,” replied Methos acidly. “The fact is that we have no idea where Darius is or how or when he will attack. Staying here for the past five days has been profoundly stupid, Sebastian. Have you seen the streets? Everyone with the means to do so is leaving, and so should we, before Lutetia is cut off. And yet here we sit playing shatranj in this dungeon your precious church has given you to live in—”

 

“My precious church shelters me as she sees fit,” returned Sebastian serenely.

 

Methos managed to hold his tongue for a moment, seething with resentment. Sebastian’s quarters consisted of a miserable little cell in the lower levels of the Church of Peter and Paul. The room was small, dark and damp, another indignity added to a stream of subtle and not-so-subtle insults directed at Sebastian by Archbishop Remigius and Dean Eleutherius, no doubt at the suggestion of the Bishop of Rome.

 

“Your precious church seeks your death,” snapped Methos finally, unable to restrain himself any longer. “If you had not been Immortal, that journey alone might have killed you. Didn’t you see the surprise on the Dean’s face when you arrived? He and the damned Bishop of Rome had assumed that you wouldn’t survive to darken his door—”

 

“His Grace failed to reckon with _you_,” replied Sebastian with an affectionate smile.

 

Methos stared at the old man in sudden comprehension, aghast. “You’ve known what they were up to all along. Why are we staying here? Why won’t you let me take you to safety?”

 

“I am needed here,” said Sebastian, a touch of sadness marring his otherwise serene expression.

 

“Needed for what? To fetch the Archbishop’s chamber pot?”

 

“Marcus!”

 

“They treat you like a slave! No, worse. Even when I was a slave I occasionally served masters who treated me with more respect.”

 

“I do not serve the Archbishop, nor the Bishop of Rome,” said Sebastian evenly. “My service is to my Creator, and to his children, my brothers and sisters.”

 

“And how is that service to be carried on here, with the Archbishop’s lackeys foisting their most menial duties on you, with his blessing? How is that service to be carried on if some enterprising soldier of Darius’ army hacks off your head to steal your crucifix? Sebastian, tell me. Why are you so determined to stay here?”

 

“Because I am needed,” repeated Sebastian, meeting Methos’ frustrated gaze.

 

Methos uttered an oath that had been ancient when he was born and rose from his chair to pace the cell restlessly for a few moments. He had never known anyone, mortal or Immortal, whose stubbornness had been more highly developed than this impossible old man. A sudden thought struck him, and he turned toward his friend, who was watching him intently. “It’s another of those damned visions of yours, isn’t it?”

 

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “I thought you did not believe in visions, Marcus.”

 

“My beliefs are irrelevant! It’s _your_ beliefs that we’re discussing. Is that why you won’t leave?”

 

Sebastian regarded him gravely, but did not answer Methos’ question. “Do you trust me, Marcus?”

 

Provoked past the limits of his patience at this apparent non sequitur, five days’ worth of Methos’ pent-up frustration finally exploded into anger. “This has nothing to do with trust!” he shouted. “It has to do with common sense. There is going to be a great deal of blood shed here in the next few days, Sebastian. In battle, if the people of Lutetia are lucky, and in slaughter if they aren’t. In either case, it’s no place for anyone to be who values their life.”

 

Sebastian caught Methos’ eye and held it. His voice was soft and steady. “Do. You. _Trust_. Me.”

 

Methos stared at his friend, groping for comprehension, struggling with his frustration. Why couldn’t Sebastian understand? His life was in danger here. He could serve neither his God, his people, nor himself by remaining. What was it he could see in these so-called visions that necessitated risking himself in this way?

 

Methos had no answer to his own question, but he couldn’t ignore the need made so apparent by Sebastian’s, and his anger was snuffed out as quickly as it had flared. His shoulders sagged in defeat, and he swung away from his friend, not wanting the old man to see the anxiety in his face. “You know I do,” he said gruffly.

 

“Then believe me when I say that my staying here will be for the best,” said the priest gently. He paused for a moment, then continued in a subdued tone. “But there is no need for _you_ to stay, my son.”

 

Methos shook his head involuntarily. Strange that he had never considered leaving without the old man; that was certainly the most sensible thing to do. But for some reason abandoning Sebastian to the impending sack of Lutetia by Darius’ bloodthirsty brigands was not an option. Methos laughed humorlessly, thinking how appealing an option it would have been just a few short centuries ago—perhaps even a few short decades ago. He composed his features and turned back to face Sebastian.

 

“Of course there is,” he growled. “I stay to protect Darius and his hordes. They stand no chance at all against a lunatic Christian priest.”

 

Sebastian smiled faintly, his eyes much brighter than usual. “I see. Your compassion for Darius is commendable, Marcus.”

 

Methos shrugged, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “Not compassion. Appreciation. We’re two of a kind, after all.” He winced inwardly, regretting those last words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Sebastian was certainly not going to let that pass.

 

“Ah,” said Sebastian mildly. Methos could sense the older man examining the significance of the remark, turning it over in his mind to examine it from all perspectives, and he groaned inwardly, foreseeing a particularly exasperating round of persuasion in the offing.

 

“Is it my move?” asked Methos hurriedly, reseating himself at the table in an effort to deflect the priest’s attention. A memory of long afternoons teaching this game to Lucius touched his mind as he did so, and he shoved the image away ruthlessly.

 

“Yes,” said Sebastian with more emphasis than was required. He paused for a moment. “And your friend? Is he of your kind as well?”

 

Methos stared at the shatranj board determinedly, silently cursing the priest for his perceptiveness. There were times when Sebastian made him feel that his skull was made of glass.

 

“You do not wish to tell me about your friend?” persisted Sebastian gently.

 

Methos kept his face impassive. “What friend?” he asked casually, moving a Cavalry piece.

 

Sebastian effortlessly moved an Infantryman to take Methos’ Cavalry, ignoring Methos’ glare. “Your Roman friend on the fine white horse.”

 

“What makes you think he’s a friend?”

 

“You stood too close to him for him to be anything else.”

 

Methos said nothing, and Sebastian continued.

 

“He bore a remarkable resemblance to a young man with whom I saw you coming out of the brothels and taverns for the first three years you were in Rome.”

 

“You didn’t know me fifteen years ago.”

 

“You did not know _me_ fifteen years ago,” corrected Sebastian mildly. “I have watched _you_ for some time. It is your move.”

 

“I know it’s my move! I’m trying to think,” snapped Methos, unnerved at the thought that Sebastian could have observed him for years without his being aware of it, but not doubting it for a moment.

 

“Is your friend very much like you and Darius, Marcus?” asked Sebastian softly.

 

Damn the man’s persistence. “No,” said Methos harshly, “And so much the worse for him.”

 

“Why so?”

 

“Because unless he is, he won’t survive this.”

 

“Do you believe that Darius suspects him?”

 

Methos’ head jerked up in surprise. “What?”

 

Sebastian eyed him calmly. “Do you believe that Darius suspects that Lucius’ loyalties lie elsewhere?”

 

Methos, shocked, groped for words and found none.

 

“Have you contacted the Watchers here in Lutetia?” continued Sebastian.

 

“The _Watchers_?” Methos’ voice was strident with surprise. He had, of course, reported the situation to the Master—not that he expected any good to come of it. How in the name of all the gods ever spawned did Sebastian know about the Watchers?

 

“Your friend has acted unwisely,” said Sebastian, his eyes searching Methos’ face. “His warning will not prevent bloodshed, and has very likely placed him in an untenable position within Darius’ inner circle. He has underestimated the General badly if he believes that the sight of well-manned walls will deter him. Darius has taken cities and towns more strongly defended than Lutetia could ever be, even if Clovis should oblige the Archbishop.”

 

“You old sorcerer,” Methos managed to croak. “How can you possibly—”

 

“Oh, I am very familiar with Darius’ tactics,” said Sebastian with a smile. “They were something of a study of mine at one time, when such things concerned me more directly than they do now. You have reason to be concerned about your friend.”

 

“How do you know about the Watchers?” demanded Methos, finally finding voice enough for a coherent question.

 

“How do you know that you and Darius are of a kind?” returned Sebastian, still smiling.

 

“I asked first,” said Methos determinedly, trying not to smile in return.

 

“True. But I am defeating you soundly at shatranj,” replied the priest with mischief in his voice. “I asked second, but should be answered first, so that I might be inclined to show mercy.”

 

“Damned lunatic priest,” growled Methos in frustration, finding himself once again completely unable to resist the old fool. “What is it you want to hear?”

 

“An honest answer to my question.”

 

“You know the answer!”

 

“I do not,” replied Sebastian. “I assure you that the matter puzzles me exceedingly.”

 

“You know who I am,” said Methos harshly.

 

“Who you _are_? Or who you _were_?”

 

“They are the same person, Sebastian.”

 

“And the man you _are_ resembles Darius to the same extent the man you _were_ did?”

 

“Not at the moment,” muttered Methos, dropping his eyes to the shatranj board. “Death can be avoided...for a while. But Death is always there.”

 

“Ah,” said Sebastian with a gentle laugh, “But a logical proof has been offered for your possession of faith. Is it possible for Death to have _faith_, Marcus Gaius?”

 

Methos raised his eyes to Sebastian’s with a faint smile, and shook his head wordlessly, unable to speak. The old fool would never give up. Methos dropped his eyes again, his vision strangely blurred.

 

Sebastian nodded, and began to idly trace a pattern in the dust on the table with his finger, murmuring something softly in Greek. Methos blinked furiously, scowled and shoved one of his Elephants into what he hoped was an advantageous position. “What are you mumbling about?”

 

Sebastian dispatched the Elephant with one of his Cavalry. “Just an old piece of verse. I have been considering it a great deal lately. Tell me, how would you translate ‘agapé’?”

 

Methos eyed the priest suspiciously as his Elephant took its sorry place beside his Cavalry. “Charity?”

 

Sebastian considered his tracing. “Possibly...but the connotation is not quite correct in this context.”

 

“I’ve seen the word translated as love,” said Methos, eyes narrowing. _Now_ what was the old fox up to? “Not passion, but selfless love.”

 

“Ah,” said Sebastian in satisfaction. “Now that makes sense. Thank you, my son. It is your move again.”

 

“I know!” Methos considered the board for a moment then looked up and sighed in resignation. “All right. What context?”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“Agapé!”

 

“Oh, yes. An old letter from Paul of Tarsus to the Christian church in Corinth. It is a long passage, and nothing of interest to an inveterate unbeliever like yourself.”

 

Methos glowered, and Sebastian laughed and quoted softly. “‘Though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not _love_ I am nothing.’”

 

Methos leaned back slightly, taken by surprise. “I thought you Christians believed that faith was everything.”

 

“Some of us do,” said Sebastian in an amused tone. “An argument could be made, however, that faith is impossible without love. What do you think?”

 

Methos shrugged. “I suppose, in the context of your lunatic beliefs, that that argument could be made. By that logic, though, you must accept the fact a man already proven incapable of love would also be incapable of faith.” Methos moved his Prime Minister to what he thought was a safer location on the board.

 

“And conversely, _you_ must accept the fact that a man already proven capable of faith must be capable of love.” Sebastian’s Ship took Methos’ Prime Minister. “I believe I have won.”

 

Methos stared from the board to Sebastian in disbelief.

 

“You are a good teacher,” said Sebastian with all innocence.

 

“You,” said Methos in a lethal tone, “are a demon straight from that hell of yours.”

 

Sebastian laughed delightedly. “You acknowledge the existence of hell then, Marcus Gaius? I make progress.”

 

Methos observed the old man sourly. “Hell is playing shatranj with you, priest. You probably invented it.”

 

“Hell or shatranj?”

 

“Stop changing the subject!”

 

“The subject, as I recall, was love. It was you who changed the subject, my son—to hell, of all things.”

 

“I understand hell,” said Methos in an undertone, surprising himself with that truth.

 

“Having reached that understanding, scholar, move on,” said Sebastian evenly. His voice gentled. “Understand love.”

 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Methos impatiently. Enough was enough. It was time for a brief hiatus from Sebastian’s interminable and inauspicious campaign in pursuit of his salvation.

 

“You do,” returned Sebastian with gentle firmness. “Why do you remain in Lutetia? It is not safe for you here.”

 

“It’s not safe for anyone here,” muttered Methos.

 

“The situation carries unique dangers for you. You have friends who ride with Darius.”

 

“Friends?” said Methos sharply.

 

“They and you will become powers in this conflict. You will have to stand against them, or with them, to protect yourself and others, to slay or be slain. You know this. Tell me why you stay.” Sebastian spoke in the flat monotone of insight, and the light behind his eyes seemed very far away.

 

Methos shivered despite the warmth of the room, and picked up his fallen Prime Minister, fingering it nervously. He said nothing, his mind groping for both an answer to Sebastian’s question and an understanding of his inexplicable knowledge.

 

Sebastian smiled. “There is only one answer.”

 

Methos stared at the shatranj piece in his hand, refusing to look up..._afraid_ to look up. He knew what the answer was. So did Sebastian. Why was he forcing this now? Why was it so important to speak if they understood each other?

 

“‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.’” Sebastian’s voice was no more than a whisper.

 

Methos drew a shaky breath. “Paul of Tarsus again?”

 

“Yes,” said Sebastian softly.

 

“Long-winded, isn’t he?” Methos’ voice quavered slightly.

 

“Usually.” There was laughter and acceptance in Sebastian’s tone.

 

Methos managed a rough laugh. “Does he ever talk about anything besides love?”

 

“Oh, he expresses his opinion on many subjects and at great length.”

 

“I can well believe it.” Methos was relieved to hear the appropriate level of sarcasm return to his voice.

 

“Ah,” said Sebastian mildly, “I perceive the problem. You prefer brevity in religious verse.”

 

“I prefer the _absence_ of religious verse, but since that seems unlikely at this point, I would appreciate brevity.” Methos began setting up the board again, keeping his eyes on the pieces and trying not to let his fingers tremble.

 

Sebastian chuckled. “You object then to the medium, but not the message. There is hope.”

 

“Of course there is hope,” growled Methos, slapping down the pieces with unnecessary force. “It abideth in Corinth with faith, and love, and the imbecilic Paul of Tarsus. It fetcheth faith’s chamber pot, and cleaneth love’s stables, and wipeth Paul’s bum.”

 

Sebastian gave him a sharp, quelling look. “Do not sneer, child,” he said sternly. “And do not mock.”

 

Methos met the old man’s eyes quickly, realizing in dismay that he had gone too far. “Sebastian, I didn’t mean…. I’m not mocking _you_.”

 

“No,” said the priest with quiet anger. “You are mocking yourself. In the face of all you have become, you still think yourself incapable of those three, yes? Faith, hope, and love?”

 

Methos, aghast at the rare intensity of the old man’s ire, struggled for a response, but Sebastian continued as if he had already answered.

 

“You are wrong. It is against that threefold cord of faith, hope, and love within yourself that you struggle now. That cord is part of our nature, part of _your_ nature, that which binds us all to each other and to our Creator.”

 

The Ship Methos had been holding dropped from his nerveless fingers onto the board. The truth of Sebastian’s words vibrated within him, and that truth frightened him far more than the man he had been did. Faith? Hope? Love? It was true; these things were growing within him now, and what had Death to do with them?

 

But then what could _Methos_ have to do with them? His was a soul riddled with dark places, places from which the unleashed and unfeeling violence of his past whispered temptingly to him while awake, and paraded luridly past him in nightmares while asleep. How could such a soul successfully pursue Sebastian’s cord? What could such a pursuit bring but disappointment and pain, not only to himself, but to those who had the misfortune to be close to him? All of Methos’ instincts cried out against the folly of cultivating such a vulnerability.

 

“What if I don’t want to be bound?” Methos finally faltered. “What if I _cut_ that cord?”

 

Sebastian reached over to right the Ship, his expression grim. “Then Death has won.”

 

Methos stared at the Ship as Sebastian’s hand left it, barely comprehending, speechless. Sebastian spoke into the silence, his voice tender.

 

“You must bind yourself to free yourself, Methos. Within the threefold cord, Death has no dominion.”

 

“No dominion?” whispered Methos, shocked and barely audible. “Sebastian...Death is everywhere...for _me_.”

 

Sebastian smiled faintly, and leaned forward to lay his palm against Methos’ chest. “Not here.” He moved the hand to his own chest. “And not here. Yes?”

 

Methos’ vision blurred again as he reached out one hand blindly toward Sebastian, feeling the old man’s hands engulf it and hold it tightly.

 

“Yes?” repeated Sebastian softly.

 

“Yes,” whispered Methos brokenly.

 

He leaned forward to rest his forehead against the clasped hands, feeling the hot sting of tears on his face for the first time in centuries, the touch of Sebastian’s lips on his hair in a kiss...and then the strident, ringing sensation of another Immortal.

 

That awareness tore through Methos’ vulnerable consciousness like a knife through flesh, and he bolted out of his chair, looking wildly about for his sword.

 

“Marcus!” Sebastian still held Methos’ sword hand tightly between his own. “You are on holy ground.” He paused for a moment as Methos regained his composure. “She is a friend.”

 

Methos relaxed slightly, and Sebastian released his hand. The two men stared at each other for a moment as the signature increased in strength. An Ancient.

 

“Would you mind telling me who it is you’ve invited?” asked Methos in an undertone; footsteps were already audible on the stone steps at the end of the corridor.

 

Sebastian smiled and shook his head. “I issued no invitation. The lady is a friend of yours, not mine, although I knew her once long ago. She has come here of her own volition and at some risk.”

 

“Someday, priest,” hissed Methos, quickly wiping the last of the tears from his face. “You will explain to me how you know everything of what you shouldn’t and nothing of what you should.”

 

“Perhaps,” said Sebastian gently, as the footsteps approached the door.

 

Methos turned to see a young woman dressed in men’s clothing enter the room quietly and stand just inside the door, studying the two men. She appeared to be just past her thirtieth year, a plain, slender woman with deep set blue eyes and light brown hair, some of which had been blown by the wind out of its binding. She was weaponless.

 

It was a full ten seconds before Methos’ mind, engrossed as it had been in matters far removed from pleasant memories, finally communicated to him that this woman was not a stranger. He also realized that his mouth was hanging open. “What...how...?”

 

The woman looked him over up and down with a dour expression, which did not entirely conceal the humor in her eyes.

 

“You were more articulate once, Methos.” Her eyes traveled to Sebastian as she continued. “But perhaps all the time spent in the company of this constantly prattling old...priest—” She rolled her eyes, “—has rendered you unaccustomed to speaking.”

 

Methos glanced to Sebastian in confusion, only to see the priest smiling. “It is good to see you, Joanna.”

 

“And I to see you...Father.” The title seemed, for some reason, to amuse the woman, and she laughed softly. Sebastian’s smile broadened, but he said nothing.

 

“Joanna, what are you doing here?” Methos finally managed. This woman was the last person he had expected to see.

 

“It speaks,” drawled Joanna. “Gods below, Methos. I’ve not seen you in three centuries. Is this the best you can do?” She held out both her hands, her expression softening, and Methos stepped forward to take them.

 

That touch immediately reawakened ancient memories, the memories of a man before the specter of Death had claimed him, and Methos suddenly pulled the woman close to embrace her tightly. He saw in his mind’s eye the child she had been almost three millennia ago, coming to him with tablet and stylus in her hand for her lessons, blue eyes full of affection and trust. “I’m glad you’re here,” he managed, gruffly.

 

Joanna returned the embrace, laughing with soft surprise into his ear, then drew back gently, her eyes searching his face. “You look well. Christianity agrees with you. I congratulate you upon your conversion of this irredeemable savage, Sebastian.” She flicked a teasing look over Methos’ shoulder to the priest, who chuckled and resumed his seat.

 

Methos snorted and stepped back, grateful she had perceived that sustaining that moment of greeting was unnecessary. “Your congratulations are premature,” he said drily. “I remain irredeemable.”

 

“Good,” returned Joanna with a grin. “That is a comfort; the world has too few constants as it is.”

 

Sebastian clucked his tongue and shook his head with an exasperated expression.

 

“You’ve been riding hard,” observed Methos quickly, before Sebastian could start again. “What are you doing in Gaul...and in a city under threat of attack? They must have told you at the gate that Darius is on his way. This is no place for a poet. It’s no place for anyone who has no taste for the sight of blood.”

 

Joanna’s face hardened. Her posture stiffened; her back went ramrod straight, her chin tilted upward, and her hands clasped behind her back. Methos once again saw the child she had been standing before him in exactly the same pose, come to confess some fault.

 

“There are times when circumstances do not reckon with taste,” she said evenly. “I ride with Darius.”

 

If she had claimed to have swallowed the moon, Methos could not have been more taken aback. This woman had taken less joy in killing than any Immortal he had ever known, until he had met Sebastian. She had fought only when it could not be avoided. And now she rode with one of the most bloodthirsty killers Methos had heard of in centuries. Why?

 

“I don’t understand,” said Methos uncertainly. He glanced back to Sebastian, who was registering no surprise. “You knew this.”

 

“I knew,” said Sebastian simply.

 

Methos turned back to Joanna, fighting anger. “You ride with Darius. After everything you had to say about my riding with the Horsemen—”

 

“I don’t have time to explain this, Methos,” cut in Joanna sharply. “And you don’t have time to listen to the explanation.”

 

“I will make the time,” said Methos in a curt tone. “Explain.”

 

“Methos,” murmured Sebastian.

 

“I do not owe you an explanation, any more than you did me,” snapped Joanna.

 

“If you ride with Darius, then what are you doing here?” A thought occurred to Methos, and he grasped at it hopefully, wondering as he did so why hope was required. “Have you left him? Is that it? The deserters have been flooding into town in the past few days—”

 

“Oh, so this is where they came,” said Joanna, darkly amused. “I wouldn’t advise them to stay.”

 

Methos was silenced by the ferocity in the once-gentle eyes.

 

“The deserters have been telling strange tales,” said Sebastian softly into the silence. “They say that Darius has gone mad. They speak of the General killing his officers with his bare hands.”

 

Methos turned toward Sebastian in astonishment. “Why didn’t you—”

 

“They speak the truth, as far as they know it,” broke in Joanna in a strained tone. “That is why I am here. Methos, Darius has found out about the Watchers. He has found out about Marcus Gaius. He knows where you are, and what you look like. He will come for you.”

 

Methos stared at her, groping for comprehension for a few seconds, then nodded as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. His stomach turned.

 

“He discovered Lucius.”

 

Joanna did not meet his eyes. “You must leave at once.”

 

Methos stepped closer, his mind racing, leaping ahead to obvious and sickening conclusions. “Lucius would not have volunteered this information.”

 

“Methos, did you hear me?” Joanna’s tone was impatient. “I say that Darius himself has sworn to find the Watcher Marcus Gaius and impale him, along with every other Watcher he can find. Once he senses what you are, he’ll not stop at impalement.”

 

“It is fortunate,” said Sebastian softly, “that you did not reveal to Lucius what you were, Marcus, or Darius would have even a greater motivation to find you.”

 

Joanna went on as if the priest had not spoken. “The deserters were right; he has gone mad. He sees Watchers everywhere, even among the corps of his most senior officers. He has killed men who have served him faithfully for decades.”

 

Methos turned toward Sebastian in a rage. “Damn him! Damn that Roman fool! I told him not to go back; he would not listen. He had _faith_ in his Masters’ judgment,” he snarled savagely.

 

“It would seem his faith in these men was misplaced,” said Sebastian in a measured tone.

 

“Methos, what is wrong with you? I tell you that Darius seeks your death! You must go, now!” Joanna’s raised voice echoed against the stone walls of Sebastian’s cell.

 

Methos and Sebastian’s eyes locked for a moment; then Sebastian spoke softly. “She is right, child. You must go. There is nothing you can do for Lucius now, or for anyone else in Lutetia. You must leave at once.”

 

“And you will come with me?” Methos asked the question yet again, knowing as he did so that even this news would not shake the old man’s determination to stay.

 

“I am sorry, my son. I cannot,” replied Sebastian quietly. 

 

“You would be wise to go, Sebastian,” interjected Joanna urgently. “Darius knows that Marcus Gaius escorted you here. He no doubt assumes that you, too, are connected with these Watchers. Your cassock will not protect you should he find you.”

 

“You _will_ come with me,” said Methos with finality in his tone and the unshakable conviction that he was as mad as his friend, “or I will not go.”

 

“Methos—” began Sebastian in a pleading tone.

 

“What lunacy is this?” cried Joanna in exasperation. “Darius will attack within three days. That is barely enough time for you to put enough distance between you and him to ensure your safety. Sebastian, let Methos take you away from here!”

 

“My child, I cannot. I am needed here.” Sebastian’s expression and tone were pained.

 

“Needed!” gasped Joanna in amazement. “For what?”

 

“Don’t bother asking!” snapped Methos angrily. “He won’t tell you. He won’t tell _me_!”

 

“My son—”

 

“Sebastian, can’t you see that it’s Methos who needs you?” Joanna’s strident tone cut through Sebastian’s attempt at mollification. “He won’t leave without you! Have you any idea what the consequences of this decision could be?”

 

“I know precisely what those consequences could be,” returned Sebastian with the first hint of anger he had thus far betrayed. “And I ask you, as I have asked Methos, to trust me.”

 

“And if these consequences destroy our trust in you?” demanded Joanna fiercely. “Do you imagine that I will trust or forgive you if Darius kills Methos?”

 

Sebastian flinched visibly. “That cannot happen...that will not happen. Joanna—”

 

“Enough! I’ve said everything I came to say. I must return to Darius.”

 

“Are you insane?” shouted Methos, losing what little was left of his composure as he grabbed the woman’s arm. “Has what happened to Lucius taught you nothing? Darius will—”

 

“Darius will thank me for successfully completing the commission he gave me: gaining admission to Lutetia, assessing its defenses, and locating Marcus Gaius and Sebastian,” snarled Joanna, jerking her arm away. “I suggest that you leave.” She turned on her heel and stormed out, leaving Methos staring after her, aghast.

 

He turned to Sebastian, who was gazing at him with tears in his eyes. “My son, don’t judge her until you know—”

 

“I have absolutely no interest in judging her,” returned Methos icily. He was vaguely surprised at the numbness that had settled over him. It was disturbingly familiar, but he could not identify it. “I am going to see the Master Watcher again. The Watchers in Lutetia will go with me to Darius’ camp and free Lucius...if he still lives. And when we return, you will leave this mud hole with us, if I have to kill you and sling you over my saddle. Is that clear?”

 

“Methos, my son, don’t do this,” pleaded Sebastian, rising from his chair to place his hands on Methos’ shoulders.

 

Methos removed Sebastian’s hands from his shoulders firmly, but the numbness within him receded at the sight of the tears standing in the old man’s eyes. “I recruited Lucius to the Watchers, Sebastian. He’s being tortured because he trusted us. I cannot leave him there.”

 

“Child, you cannot help Lucius this way. It will only extend his suffering, and cause the suffering of many others.” Sebastian’s tears spilled over onto his weathered face. “Please, Methos, stay here with me. We have so little time.”

 

“We’ll have plenty of time, Sebastian,” said Methos in a gentler tone. “I’ll be fine. I will be back with Lucius by dawn tomorrow, and we will leave together. We’ll go to Constantinople, and you can teach me how to cheat at shatranj.”

 

Sebastian gazed at him in wordless anguish for a few moments, then nodded and raised a hand to Methos’ cheek.

 

“Take care, child. Go with God.”

 

“Which one?” countered Methos, disconcerted by the priest’s apparent emotion and hoping for a smile.

 

Sebastian gave him one through his tears, and stroked Methos’ long hair away from his face gently. “Whichever God will bring you peace, child.”

 

Methos felt his throat tighten, and almost changed his mind...but no. Lucius could not be betrayed twice. He took Sebastian’s hand and squeezed it firmly. “I’ll be back by dawn. Be ready to go,” he said as steadily as he could manage.

 

“I will be ready at dawn,” replied Sebastian quietly.

 

Methos nodded, then turned, picked up his sword, and stepped through the door. As he turned into the corridor, he heard Sebastian speak again.

 

“Farewell, my son.”

 

***

 

 

“He’s gone.”

 

Methos started into awareness again only to find Richie leaning close and passing a hand within annoying proximity of the end of his nose. “Watch it!” he growled, slapping the offending hand away.

 

“And he’s back again,” intoned Richie, rubbing his hand. “Remind me to see about getting this guy’s temporal passport revoked.”

 

“You okay?” asked Joe.

 

“I’ve been worse,” muttered Methos.

 

“Look, if you don’t want to talk about this—”

 

“Of course I don’t want to talk about this!” snapped Methos, then saw the look on Joe’s face. “Sorry. Look, Joe, there’s probably a lot you don’t know—”

 

“Fine,” cut in Richie in exasperation. “There’s even more _I_ don’t know. Will someone please just tell me what happened?”

 

Methos and Joe looked at each other expectantly.

 

“Either one of you will do,” said Richie with a pained expression.

 

“Okay, edited highlights,” said Joe wearily. “Lucius got very close to Darius. Too close for his own good. But he was able to send the Watchers in Rome more information on Darius in the ten years he Watched him than they’d been able to gather in the previous five hundred. So nobody told him he was too close.”

 

“Couldn’t he figure that out for himself?”

 

“He trusted the Masters in Rome,” said Methos, closing his eyes. “He couldn’t conceive that they would risk him unnecessarily. He was a Roman soldier, raised to trust and obey those in authority. And he thought he could handle it.”

 

“So…?”

 

“So Darius began to suspect him. No one knows why,” continued Joe. “But the last straw was when Lucius rode out of Darius’ camp to Lutetia to warn them of the impending attack. He met Marcus Gaius on his way to—”

 

Joe trailed off and stared at Methos, then shook his head. “This is going to take some getting used to. _You’re_ Marcus Gaius. You wrote the report that—”

 

“I didn’t write a report, Joe,” said Methos, unable to censor the harshness from his tone. “Whatever you saw was probably written by the Master Watcher in Lutetia—I’ve forgotten his name. I didn’t give a damn about the Watchers and their reports by that time.”

 

Joe nodded, not asking, and continued. “Darius had Lucius followed. When he got back to camp, and made no mention of speaking with anyone, Darius confronted him. Lucius claimed to be asking a member of the traveling party for some water.”

 

“Pretty lame,” said Richie, then added quickly, “No offense, Methos.”

 

“It _was_ lame,” said Methos in a strained tone. “Lucius never learned to lie well. No talent for it at all.”

 

“I guess Darius thought it was lame, too?” asked Richie, and Methos could hear the tension in the boy’s voice. There was no question that the kid was not going to like this, but could he at least accept it?

 

“Yeah. He didn’t buy it,” said Joe softly. “He questioned Lucius for a while, but he wouldn’t change his story. So, finally, he tortured him.”

 

There was a very long pause, and finally Methos opened his eyes again. Richie’s gaze was focused on the carpet. He was expressionless, and his face was very pale. Damn.

 

“Rich,” said Methos, not quite believing what he heard himself saying, but unable to remain silent, “this was not the man you knew.”

 

“I know,” said Richie in a subdued tone. He lifted his head, his expression still somber. “So then what happened?”

 

“Marcus found…oh, shit, I can’t get used to this,” growled Joe. “Methos found out— Adam, are you sure you don’t want to tell this?”

 

“You’re doing fine,” said Methos, closing his eyes again.

 

“Thanks a lot, pal,” grumbled Joe, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. “Methos found out from a friend that Lucius was being held and tortured in Darius’ camp.”

 

“So how long had he been....?” Richie hesitated over the last word.

 

“Five days,” said Methos tonelessly.

 

“Shit,” said Richie softly. “I’m sorry, man.”

 

“It’s okay, Rich. Ancient history,” lied Methos, trying to keep his tone light, and not succeeding particularly well.

 

“Not tonight,” said Richie soberly, making Methos open his eyes and look at those young/old eyes again, and finding again that impossible understanding.

 

Methos looked away, unable to endure that intensity for very long, only to find it in Joe’s eyes as well. He closed his eyes again, resolving to keep them closed. And to keep his mouth shut; he did not trust his voice.

 

“So what happened next?” asked Richie after a moment.

 

“Methos went to the Master Watcher in Lutetia and requested assistance to rescue Lucius.”

 

“And?”

 

“And his request was declined.”

 

“Declined?” The indignation in Richie’s voice was vaguely comforting. “Those bastards. They sent him in there. Are you telling me they knew he was being tortured and they weren’t going to do anything about it? They were just going to leave him there? Why, for God’s sake?”

 

“The reason stated in the record,” said Joe quietly, “was that they believed that Lucius had compromised his oath, and had interfered in the Game by assisting Darius in his conquests. And that to rescue him would make them as guilty as he was.”

 

“You told me that they knew what he was doing for ten years!”

 

“Yeah,” said Joe heavily. “They sure as hell did.”

 

“And they never warned him, never told him to back off?”

 

“Nope. Never.”

 

“So where the hell do they get off using that excuse?”

 

“Yeah, it’s pretty lame.”

 

“So what was the real reason?”

 

“The real reason,” cut in Methos sharply, “was that the Master Watcher of Lutetia was a gutless wonder.”

 

 

***

 

 

“No.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

The Master Watcher of Lutetia turned from his window and faced Methos.

 

“I cannot authorize such a venture.”

 

“A _venture_?” Methos stood before the mortal, aghast. It had not occurred to him that, given proof of Lucius’ imprisonment and torment, that the Watchers would refuse to help him. “A Watcher is being tortured as we speak! Do we abandon our own so easily?”

 

“Lucius Germanicus has placed himself in this position—”

 

“With the encouragement and connivance of the Masters in Rome,” cut in Methos, his anger pushing him past the limits of discretion.

 

“You forget yourself, Marcus Gaius!”

 

“I have forgotten nothing! It is you who have forgotten—forgotten what the Watchers owe this man, who has risked his life every day for the past ten years while you Masters stay safe behind stone walls—”

 

“Silence!”

 

“There are seven Watchers under your command here,” said Methos, trying desperately to rein in his rage. If he alienated the Master, there would be no hope of gaining any help here for Lucius. “Give me three of them and I can free Lucius without Darius being any the wiser.”

 

“That is out of the question! I cannot command these men to take such a risk for a man who is more than likely already dead.”

 

“He was alive yesterday. And I don’t ask you to command them. Explain the situation and allow them to volunteer. Lucius has many friends among the Watchers; I know that some of them will come with me.”

 

“I doubt that any of my subordinates would be so foolish,” returned the Master haughtily. “But no one here acts save at my command.”

 

“A man is dying, and all you can think about is your petty authority?”

 

“I am thinking about the safety of my Watchers,” snapped the Master. “If any of them are seen or taken by Darius during this absurd attempt, he would know where to find us all!”

 

“So that’s it,” snarled Methos furiously. “This has nothing to do with Lucius’ behavior or the Watchers’ Oath. All it has to do with is the fact that you are trying to save your miserable hide!”

 

“That is enough!” choked the Master, red-faced. “You will leave my presence immediately, leave Lutetia, and not return.”

 

“With pleasure,” said Methos in his most lethal tone. “And I will be leaving Lutetia by way of Darius’ camp. I shall free Lucius, and leave the General a map to your front door. I suggest you be away from home when he arrives.”

 

“I forbid you to do this. You are a Watcher, and under my command.”

 

Methos’ response was monosyllabic and obscene, and the Master’s eyes widened. Methos paused for a moment, striving to control himself, then in a scathing tone spoke one more word. “Coward.”

 

“Marcus Gaius, you will do nothing. I command you to do nothing!”

 

Methos turned on his heel and left.

 

***

 

 

Methos opened his eyes again and looked at Joe. “You’re not surprised,” he observed.

 

Joe nodded with a resigned expression. “Nope. It’s kind of what I suspected.”

 

“He told you to do nothing?” repeated Richie incredulously.

 

“To be precise, he _commanded _me to do nothing,” said Methos, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. He mimicked the Master’s voice savagely. “‘Marcus Gaius, you will do nothing!’”

“Uh-huh,” said Richie  “So what did Marcus Gaius do about it?”

 

“What makes you think that Marcus Gaius did anything about it?” returned Methos, eyes narrowing.

 

“Because Marcus Gaius doesn’t take anybody’s shit, for starters,” said Richie with a slow grin.

 

Joe leaned back in his chair, looking at Methos, his body shaking with long, soft laughter.

 

Methos’ eyes traveled from Richie’s face to Joe’s, and a grin of his own came unbidden to his face. “Joe, I am beginning to think this kid has potential.”

 

***

 

 

Methos crept along the bottom of the gully, hugging the grassy wall nearest Darius’ camp, cursing the light of the full moon overhead and the stench of human waste underfoot. The camp had not been difficult to find—a matter of a few gold coins and a few moments’ conversation with one of Darius’ deserters—but approaching the place undetected had been another matter. The overgrown gully running along the eastern edge of the camp had seemed an ideal approach at the time; it wasn’t until the first few buckets of filth were dumped in his path that he realized he was making his way through the camp’s communal sewer.

 

Methos cursed again as something yielded to his booted foot with an unpleasant slurping sound. Why was he doing this? The Master, sniveling worm that he was, had nevertheless been right. Lucius was like as not dead. Once Darius had satisfied himself that Lucius had told him everything he needed to know, he’d have no reason to keep him alive. It was madness to think that Lucius could have kept the General entertained for this long.

 

A burst of raucous laughter from above froze Methos in his tracks. Damn! He’d allowed his mind to wander; he must have passed through the outer perimeter guard without realizing it. Yet another indication of his madness; a lapse of concentration here, of all places, could cost him his life. What was he doing here? How in the name of all things sacred had this preposterous sentimentality crippled over three thousand years of common sense? Too late he heard the unmistakable and familiar sounds of an armed camp at midnight: the uneasy shifting and snorting of horses; the crackle of dying fires; the muttering of slaves and servants as they went about the last chores of the day; the grunts and coarse laughter of soldiers sharing their women; the cries and pleading of the women as they were taken.

 

“Is the shit in your bucket funnier than mine, Quintus?” The voice was surly.

 

Methos composed himself and listened intently, recognizing the peculiar Teutonic-Latin patois of a common Roman too long among barbarians—or a barbarian too long among Romans.

 

“_Very_ funny—take a look!”

 

“Gods, get that out of my face! What is that?”

 

“What does it look like?”

 

“Is there anything left of the bastards?”

 

“You want to know? _You_ ask the General.”

 

“I said get it out of my face! Throw it in with the rest—_they_ won’t be needing them any more.”

 

Methos pressed himself against the side of the gully, grimacing as a thick rain of urine, feces and several unidentified whitish lumps splattered just past his boot-tips.

 

“You’re a woman, Tulius. Imagine being afraid of—”

 

“Who’s afraid? They stink!”

 

Methos squinted at the ivory objects glistening with red liquid in the moonlight, then recoiled in recognition. He closed his eyes, his hands clenching the long grass at his back as the voices receded to blend into the background noise of the camp.

 

“Stink they might, but I got this off one of them. Look. Solid gold.”

 

“Take that off, you fool!”

 

“All right, all right. Nice ring, though, eh? It’ll fetch a good price….” The voices faded into the other night noises as the two men strode away from the ditch and into the heart of the camp.

 

Methos forced his eyes open and released the breath he’d been holding. He turned and stepped with numbed precision over the scattered, bloody fingers and hands lying in the mud, pursuing his course up the gully toward the heart of the camp. Those twisted appendages had belonged to more than one man. Many more. The General had been busy.

 

_He has found out about Marcus Gaius. He knows where you are, and what you look like. He will come for you._

Methos clenched his own fingers convulsively. He, Sebastian and Lucius would be miles from Lutetia before Darius set foot there. He had only to locate the one tent in this camp of a hundred tents where Lucius was being held, free him, guide him—or carry him, if he were too badly injured to walk—through thousands of fully armed German savages undetected, reach the horses he had left a mile away in the copse to the south, and ride back to Lutetia—providing of course that Lucius could stay in his saddle in the first place.

 

Methos attempted, briefly, to identify the precise moment he had run mad—then snarled softly to himself as the signature of an Immortal seized him. He was getting close. Grabbing an exposed tree root, he hauled himself up the steep slope and peered around the slender bole of the tree to get his bearings.

 

All was quiet, or as quiet as any place could be when it was occupied by thousands of human beings and animals. The camp was drifting toward slumber, no one stirred; the only people Methos could see were lying around the campfires, apparently asleep. Scanning the nearby tents, he caught his breath. The tattered banner hanging limply across the flap of the tent at the edge of the pool of firelight was unmistakable, but no lamp was lit inside. Darius was either asleep or abroad. Neither was safe; Methos would have preferred to have the man in sight. Still, the deserter had claimed that Lucius’ tent was near Darius’. Methos studied the other tents, but they lacked any distinguishing characteristic. Damn. Which—

 

A high-pierced, inarticulate shriek shattered the silence, followed by another—and another—and another. Methos hunkered down behind the tree, breathing hard, watching as the men sleeping around the fire stirred and groaned in annoyance. The final keen ended abruptly, and a few seconds later a tall, striking-looking man with dark hair and blue eyes strode out of the darkness, drawing his richly decorated cloak about himself as he licked the blade of his knife clean.

 

Methos felt his small hairs rise at the sight; Darius of Rome, kindred spirit and master in the pursuit of power through slaughter. It could be no other; the man carried himself like an emperor or a god, but Methos’ supposition was immediately confirmed.

 

“Darius.”

 

Methos craned his neck to see Joanna emerging from the General’s tent, barefoot and wearing a long shift. She was grim-faced; every line of her body was taut.

 

“A word, if you please.”

 

Darius slipped his knife into its sheath. “Yes?”

 

“In private.”

 

Methos stiffened at the leer that twisted the man’s face. If any man of Ur had dared to look at Joanna that way, Methos would have run a sword through his belly.

 

“I was certain you would come to appreciate my company in time,” chuckled Darius, reaching for her.

 

Joanna stepped back; even at a distance of several yards Methos could see the disgust in her face. “Do not delude yourself,” she said in a steely tone, changing her idiom from Latin to Greek. Methos was certain that he, Joanna and Darius were probably the only people in the camp who would understand her words; whatever she had to say, it was important. “And do not confuse submission with appreciation.”

 

Darius laughed and yanked her close. “Submission inevitably leads to appreciation. Obviously you require practice in the former, that you may enjoy the latter. Get inside.”

 

“We have an important matter to discuss.”

 

“Get inside, wench! Your important matter will wait until I am satisfied. Do not forget that lives spared may still be taken.”

 

Joanna pulled her arm from Darius’ grip. “I have not forgotten! I swore to serve you, and that is what I am doing. This madness must stop, Darius.”

 

“Madness?” Darius’ eyes narrowed.

 

“Your … _entertainment _obsesses you. You ignore your duties—”

 

“You presume—”

 

“You have slaughtered all of your most experienced officers! No preparations have been made for battle whatsoever. There is no food to be had in camp, little water, and full one-quarter of your soldiers have deserted you in fear of your lunacy. This … this bizarre fascination with the slicing of flesh—”

 

“I punish the traitors.”

 

“You are possessed by their punishment! You think of nothing else!”

 

Darius laughed again, leaning close. “I think of many things. Their punishment exhilarates me. It gives me an appetite I’ve not known in many a year. I have ridden you harder and more often these past five days than I have in a decade. Why do you complain? Do not pretend that you felt no pleasure.”

 

Methos felt his hand clench convulsively around the hilt of his sword.

 

“You are mad,” snarled Joanna, shoving Darius away. “None of your soldiers know who will be next to feed your … exhilaration. They will abandon you, or they will kill you. There are whispers, Darius. Come to your senses! You have killed all the others. Either kill Lucius or release him.”

 

“You do not command here.” All trace of laughter disappeared from the man’s face; his eyes glittered dangerously.

 

“Neither will you if you do not end this now.” Joanna met Darius’ gaze without a flinch.

 

“And who will?” Darius’ voice fell to a hoarse whisper that Methos strained to hear. “You? Do you imagine that my soldiers will follow my bed-wench? Undeceive yourself.”

 

“I have no desire to lead your pack of jackals.” Joanna’s voice was deadly now.

 

“That is well. You are getting above yourself. Do not imagine that one successful errand makes you anything but what you are.”

 

“I know what I am.”

 

“I think not. Perhaps you need another lesson in humility.”

 

Joanna dropped her gaze from Darius for the first time. “No.”

 

“It’s true I have fewer officers than I once did, but there are enough, I think, to reacquaint you with your station here—they have taken great pleasure in doing so in the past. Shall I summon them?”

 

“Darius.” Joanna’s voice became uneven. “I brought this matter to your attention to keep you alive.”

 

“At least until you’ve determined where your lover and his brats are. Yes? Fool. It has been over a decade; they’ve long forgotten you. You’ll not see them again. They survive at my pleasure, as do you. Displease me—”

 

“I serve you. If I didn’t, I would not warn you that your path leads to your destruction. I would simply watch, and wait.”

 

“My path leads to the sea; my soldiers know that. They will follow me wherever I lead.”

 

“They will not follow you to your butcher’s knives, Darius.”

 

Darius laughed harshly. “The loyal need have no fear of that. Only a traitor will meet that fate.”

 

“A warrior deserves a clean death,” returned Joanna with determination. “Kill him, Darius. Be done with your vengeance and set your mind to the true task at hand.”

 

“I will kill him when it suits me. This conversation is now concluded.” Darius shoved Joanna toward the tent. “Inside, wench, and on your back.”

 

“Darius, you must listen—”

 

Darius whipped back his arm and slapped Joanna across the face hard enough to propel her through the dark opening in the tent. Methos heard her hit the ground with a gasp, heard his own involuntary snarl of rage, felt the uneven terrain under his feet as he ran. He realized, as Darius turned toward him with widened eyes, that he had covered the distance between the gully and the tents before Darius had so much as turned to face him. Sparing no time to draw a weapon, he tackled Darius, who fell inside the tent with Methos’ hands around his throat.

 

“Gods,” came in a gasp from Joanna, still huddled on the ground.

 

“You pig-hearted son of a whore,” snarled Methos in Greek, reveling in savage exultation as Darius gagged, struggled to breathe, and fumbled with frantic hands toward his knife. Methos methodically tightened his grip with a soft, ugly laugh, watching in satisfaction as Darius seized his hands and tried, with a now naked desperation, to yank them away from his throat. “We’ll see who’s on his back.”

 

“What are you doing?” rasped Joanna, staggering to her feet to twitch the tent flap shut.

 

“Kill … him,” gurgled Darius, struggling to no effect.

 

Methos laughed in his face, drunk with long-denied violence. “Kill me yourself, coward. If you can.”

 

“_Aba_, stop,” breathed Joanna in his ear. “Please.”

 

Ignoring her, Methos removed one hand from Darius’ throat long enough to draw his knife from his belt, then plunged it to the hilt into the man’s chest. Darius screamed once, his wide eyes still staring at Methos with something akin to astonishment; then those eyes rolled back in his head and he was limp and still.

 

Methos twisted the knife savagely, but the signature of an Immortal still sang in his ears. Still alive; he had somehow missed the bastard’s heart. Lack of practice was dulling his skills. He sat back on his haunches, breathing hard, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. “He’ll be dead soon.”

 

“Gods,” repeated Joanna faintly. “Methos. What have you done?”

 

“What have _I _done?” Methos kept his voice low with difficulty. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Because I knew how you would react,” hissed Joanna. “Leave at once! You’ve only made the situation worse.”

 

“I’ll improve it before I leave.” Methos swung to his feet and drew his sword; Joanna grabbed his wrist.

 

“No!”

 

“Are you insane?”

 

“I’ll never find my husband again if you—”

 

“He’s dead,” said Methos harshly. “He’s dead and so are his children.”

 

“They’re not.” Joanna’s voice shook. “They’re slaves on Darius’ land in the east.”

 

“They’re dead, Joanna. Or sold. Why do you suppose you haven’t been able to find them? Do you really think he’d keep them, to have them rescued? Darius would never incur such a liability.”

 

Joanna stared at him, speechless, and Methos cursed silently as his rage faded. He had obliterated in a heartbeat the only hope that had made her existence bearable for a decade. “Forgive me, _bati_,” he muttered awkwardly, no longer accustomed to the language of gentleness they’d once shared. “But they’re gone.”

 

Joanna’s gaze slipped down Methos’ blade to rest on Darius. “You can’t take his head here,” she said dully. “The quickening will wake half the camp.”

 

Methos nodded, recovering his composure, and sheathed his sword. “I’m surprised half the camp wasn’t woken by the scream,” he muttered, taking a quick look outside. Nothing stirred; the soldiers still lay asleep by the campfires.

 

“Those who ride with Darius are accustomed to screams.”

 

Methos cast her a sharp glance over his shoulder; in all the centuries he’d known Joanna, she’d never sounded or looked so completely at a loss. Their eyes met; Joanna drew a shaky breath as she composed herself. “Even if they heard it, none would dare to enter the general’s tent without being summoned.”

 

Methos nodded. She knew as well as he that there was no time for anything now but the task at hand. “Get dressed. Is Lucius fit to walk?”

 

“I don’t know.” Methos averted his eyes as Joanna threw off her shift and snatched up her tunic. “I’ve not seen him since he returned from Lutetia. Even if he is, he won’t be able to walk far. Where are your horses?”

 

“A mile to the south.”

 

“A mile?” Methos heard her snort as she donned her trousers. “You’ve become an optimist, Methos—the result of consorting with Sebastian, no doubt. Did you really imagine that he would be able to travel such a distance on foot, after five days in Darius’ hands?”

 

“No,” snapped Methos, turning to glare at her as she pulled on her boots. “I imagined I’d carry him on my back, be hunted down like the imbecile that I am, and end with my head mounted on Darius’ spear for my trouble.”

 

“Your imagination has more sense than you do.” Joanna slung her sword-harness across her back and fastened it. “It’s an uncannily accurate view of the likely outcome of this venture. Which begs the question—”

 

“He’s a friend,” returned Methos curtly, feeling a fool.

 

Joanna met his gaze with a solemn expression. “Ah,” she said, sounding for all the world like Sebastian. “I see. Then I’d best fetch him.” Despite the misery and fear in her eyes, Methos detected a hint of pleased amusement. “Stay here and keep an eye on Darius.”

 

“I’ll fetch Lucius,” growled Methos in gratitude. “Just—”

 

“Don’t be an idiot. What do you intend to do when you find him? Stroll through the camp with him arm-in-arm?”

 

“I intended to leave the way I came.”

 

“He is injured, Methos, and we don’t know how badly. We cannot escape with him on foot. Speed is essential. It is only a matter of minutes before Darius rises; once he does he will set upon us with every resource at his command. We must ride.”

 

“And if Lucius can’t ride?”

 

“Then I will kill him and have Quintus bind his body to my horse.”

 

“And Quintus will remain silent because…?”

 

“Darius never returns a hostage alive after ransom has been paid, but he is scrupulous about returning the corpse. I will tell him ransom was received. He will not question it.”

 

Methos swore softly in frustration; he had not foreseen this possibility, had no contingency for this turn of events. He certainly had never intended to risk Joanna, of all people, in his ridiculous exercise in rampant sentimentalism.

 

The impatience in Joanna’s face softened to understanding. “This will work, _aba_. So long as you keep Darius from rising before we’re ready to leave, I’ll be quite safe. No one will think anything of seeing me about the camp. Now let me go, or we shall lose the darkness.”

 

The plan was sound enough, and there was no time to waste. Methos hesitated for a moment longer, then stepped back to let her pass. “Kindly do not get yourself killed.”

 

“I’ll give the matter all due thought,” returned Joanna in a wry tone. “Put on Darius’ cape and wait for my signal.” She passed through the opening in the tent and flipped the flap closed behind her. “Quintus! The general’s horse and mine, now!”

 

Methos froze in horror at her brazenness. Gods! Couldn’t she have saddled the horses herself? He heard Quintus’ groggily obscene acknowledgement of the order and relaxed slightly. Obviously such a command was not unusual—which was all to the good; no one would think of challenging the general if he chose to ride through the camp perimeter with his … bed wench.

 

Methos’ loathing gaze settled on Darius’ still form for a moment. In the old days…. But these were not the old days, and he had business elsewhere. Let Sebastian’s divine justice deal with Darius of Rome. Nevertheless, the least the bastard could do was speed his guests on their way, and his cloak would go a long way toward convincing any sentries that this was indeed Darius riding past. Methos squatted beside Darius, pulled his knife from the body and began to unhook the clasp of the cloak.

 

Bloody hands seized his throat, pressing thumbs into his Adam’s apple with shocking strength, yanking him down until his face was no more than an inch from Darius. Darius’ face twisted with pain and hatred, his eyes wild and feral as he laughed, frothy blood staining his lips. “Marcus … Gaius … fool.”

 

Methos gagged and dropped his knife to drive his own thumbs deeply into the inside of Darius’ wrists, to no avail; the grip on his throat only tightened. In desperation, Methos swung his leg over Darius’ body and rammed his knee into the man’s groin with all his strength. Darius’ howl of pain was cut off as Methos slapped a hand over his mouth, groping with the other for his knife, which he held to Darius’ throat. Darius froze, then slowly relaxed his grip, and Methos jerked his neck out of the lethal grasp.

 

“One sound,” he hissed, riveting his gaze to Darius’. “Just one, and by all that’s unholy, I’ll saw your head off an inch at a time.”

 

Darius’ eyes narrowed; Methos saw the speculation in his eyes.

 

“I will saw it off and feed your brains to your dogs.” Methos barely recognized his own voice.

 

Darius laughed into Methos’ hand as Methos glanced about in search of something to use as a gag. Darius spoke in a soft voice, and Methos lifted his hand cautiously. “My dogs will be devouring someone else entirely this night.”

 

“I think not,” said Methos grimly.

 

“You dare not take my head here. My quickening would draw my soldiers by the thousands. You would be alone amidst an army thirsty for your blood.” Darius’ soft, contemptuous laughter rose. “I will kill you, Watcher. I will impale you. I will geld you. I will burn your entrails before your eyes and skin you alive before I hack off your head with my dullest blade and feed your carcass to my dogs. Your empty skin will flutter in the wind atop my banner as I sack Lutetia.”

            Methos felt the small hairs on the back of his neck rise; the chant was all too familiar, and the possibility all too likely. “Sack Lutetia,” he snarled. “Burn it to the ground for all I care. But touch me or mine again and you’ll not live to see another sunrise.” Without further preamble, Methos slapped his hand over Darius’ mouth, yanked Darius’ knife from his belt and rammed it into his chest, knowing as he did so that this time it had struck the heart. Darius screamed into Methos’ hand, spitting a hot stream of blood that spurted blue-red between Methos’ fingers. He went limp as his eyes glassed over; he stared sightlessly into Methos’ face.

 

Methos stared back, feeling Darius’ blood cool on his hands, waiting for the pleasure of the kill, the euphoria that had always followed the shedding of blood, but it did not come. He waited for what seemed a lifetime, and still it did not come. There had been a time when taking a life had been like taking a lover, but he felt nothing. Danger had never dulled that experience before; nor had the knowledge that an Immortal would rise again. And yet he felt nothing. Nothing. Methos lifted his hands, studying them minutely, as if the blood of Darius were in some way different from all others, as if this difference could explain…feeling nothing. But he knew he would find no difference. There _was _no difference. Because Sebastian had been right.

 

“No dominion,” whispered Methos in stunned belief. “No dominion.”

 

Methos stared, transfixed, at his hands, unable to measure the passing of time, until a low, sharp whistle from outside the tent brought him to the here and now. He started and swore under his breath. Joanna. He hastily wiped his hands clean on Darius’ tunic, then unhooked the cloak and yanked it off Darius’ body. Wrapping the cloak around him, he pulled the large hood low over his face, returned his knife to his belt, and slipped outside.

 

Joanna was astride her horse, but there was no sign of Lucius; instead, a large bulky object wrapped in tapestries and furs lay across her saddle before her. Quintus stood by, holding the reins of Darius’ horse. He stiffened to respectful attention as Methos approached.

 

“Hurry,” Joanna murmured in Persian, her voice barely audible.

 

Methos swung into his saddle, eyes riveted to the bundle. Not a twinge of a signature. She’d killed him; he was injured too badly to ride. Damn. Quintus handed up the reins, his eyes fearfully averted. Methos snatched them out of the soldier’s hand, grateful that Darius inspired such terror. A sharp-eyed man could tell with one long look that the man in the cloak was not Darius of Rome. The sooner they were out of here….

 

Something between a scream and a howl from within Darius’ tent shattered the silence and startled both horses, sending them shying and whinnying in fear. Methos gasped and kept to his saddle with an effort. Gods! The man should have been dead for an hour. He understood now the wild tales whispered in the countryside; demons had been made of far less formidable men.

 

“_Arms!_” came in a gurgling shriek. “_Arms! Spies, traitors! Arms!_”

 

Quintus snarled and threw himself forward, drawing his knife; Methos could see sudden comprehension in the man’s dull features. Methos kicked the knife out of the man’s hand and urged his horse forward. Quintus seized the bridle and yanked on it, causing the horse to rear slightly, neighing in protest. “Go, go!” he shouted to Joanna, drawing his sword.

 

Joanna grimaced and dug her heels into the sides of her mount. She drew her sword and clutched the bundle before her as her horse surged forward, dodging a disorganized group of poorly armed, groggy soldiers to vault over the nearest campfire. “At the bridge,” she shouted over her shoulder in Persian. She disappeared among the tents, the sound of her horse’s hooves drowned out by the sound of alarm gongs and horns from the waking officers and the shouts of the common soldiers as they scrambled to respond.

 

“_Arms!_” Darius staggered from his tent, bloodied from neck to crotch, eyes fey with a strange light, sword clutched in his gory fist. A thousand years of calculated carnage could not and did not lessen the impact of that sight; Methos kicked savagely at the hand holding his bridle to no avail. “_Marcus Gaius! A thousand pieces of gold to the man who takes Marcus Gaius alive!_” Darius lunged forward, sword raised, howling.

 

Snarling in fear and frustration, Methos arced his sword downward toward the hand that held his bridle, severing it cleanly at the wrist before Quintus could react. The man’s screams reverberated in his ears as the horse beneath him leapt forward, barely evading a wild sword thrust from Darius. Methos propelled the animal onward, urging him to a full gallop around, and occasionally through, both fire and foe as confused, sleep-fogged men threw themselves in his path in a vain effort to impede his progress. By the time Methos had made his way to the northern perimeter, hacked off the head of one of the perimeter guards and galloped to freedom, Darius of Rome’s entire army was but minutes behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Didn’t go quite according to plan.”

 

Methos snorted; Joe’s wry expression steadied him somehow. “Not quite.”

 

“Shit, man.” Richie’s face was decidedly whiter than it had been. “Shit.”

 

Methos wondered whether it was Darius’ capacity for brutality or his own that had shaken him. “The kid’s a poet, Joe.” Despite his best efforts, he was unable to inject much of his usual acid into his tone.

 

“How far was Darius’ camp from Lutetia?” Joe’s voice was sober now.

 

“Oh, ten miles, give or take. An hour’s ride at full gallop. It took me a little longer, though.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“I took Darius on a magical mystery tour of the scenic Gallic countryside. It was lovely by moonlight.”

 

“You were buying time for Joanna and Lucius.” Richie spoke with unnerving certainty.

 

“I was keeping my skin on,” retorted Methos tartly. “It’s a hell of a lot easier to track a man making a bee-line for the nearest settlement than one who’s zigzagging from copse to hedgerow and back again.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“And Joanna was at the bridge?” asked Joe quietly.

 

Something in Joe’s manner told Methos that he already knew the answer, and probably a good deal more. And Joe was bloody well going to explain all that, but now…. Methos swallowed around a dry throat and nodded, allowing his eyes to close again. “Yes. She was there.”

 

“What bridge?” Richie sounded almost afraid to ask.

 

“There was only one bridge onto the Isle de la Cité in those days, Rich,” murmured Joe when Methos didn’t answer. “The old Roman bridge that led to the gates of Paris.”

 

***

 

 

The gates were open. There was no doubt about it. He was only a few yards from the bridge and riding hard; the breaking dawn clearly illuminated river, bridge and gates. Why in the name of all the gods ever thought of were the gates open? Joanna must have told them that Darius was on his way. The gates should be closed and bolted, and barricades should be erected at the southern end of the bridge. The walls, crude and insubstantial as they were, should be manned with every armed adult to be found in the town. And yet the walls were empty, the gates ajar, the bridge undefended, and ten thousand howling savages led by an Immortal madman were half a mile behind him, their roar rolling across the countryside like the sea Darius had vowed to claim.

 

Not that Methos objected to an open bridge and gate at this particular juncture; the opportunity to put a river and a wall between himself and the horror at his heels was an unlooked-for blessing. He had prepared himself for a leap into the icy Seine and a desperate swim for what little cover from flying arrows could be found between the riverbank and the wall, until darkness gave him a chance to scale the wall, or gave Joanna a chance to bribe the gatekeepers to open the gate long enough for him to slip inside.

 

Instead, he found himself driving his exhausted mount at full gallop along the stone bridge that spanned the Seine at its narrowest point, eyes fixed on the slight gap between the wooden gates, praying that whoever had been drunk or mad or stupid enough to leave them open remained so just long enough for Methos to get inside. As he reached the halfway mark in the span, the signature of an ancient Immortal touched him and blew every fevered, superstitious chant out of his mouth and mind. He gasped and instinctively hunched his shoulders about his ears, half-expecting to hear Darius’ battle cry and the massed whistle of a hundred arrows. Instead, a familiar figure slipped between the gates to beckon urgently, sword drawn.

 

Methos dug his heels into his horse’s sides mercilessly. At the bridge, she’d said, and she’d kept her word—again and always. That Joanna’s word was inviolate was Joanna’s one true absurdity; predictability was something an Immortal could ill afford. Something they would speak about later, at length.

 

With a visible effort, Joanna shoved one side of the gate open wide enough for Methos to ride through, then tried to push it back again, faltering a little behind the burden of the oak timbers. “Where in the name of all holies have you been?” she snapped. “I thought you were right behind me.”

 

“Just showing our guests the way.” Methos vaulted from his horse and threw his weight against the gate, glaring at the small group of unarmed men standing nervously to one side. “Give us a hand here, unless you want Darius’ sword up your asses!” The mounting roar of voices and hoof beats from beyond the gates forced him to raise his voice.

 

A half-dozen men hastily joined Methos and Joanna to lift the huge beam into its brace and slide it across the gates. Methos stepped back, breathing hard, staring through the open wicket in the bolted gates before him at the approaching cavalry. They were all exactly where he had told Sebastian they would be if they tarried—trapped inside the city walls, awaiting the slaughter to come. The bridge over the northern arm of the Seine had been washed away in the winter floods. There was no way in or out of the city but by these gates, gates that even now were being trained upon by Darius’ archers. They were all dead, unless by the grace of some intervening angel of self-interest Clovis made good on his promise to the Archbishop. It was only a matter of time.

 

But then Methos was insane, and could have done nothing else. He knew he could no more have abandoned Sebastian than he could have abandoned Lucius, and yet his actions had only served to deliver them all into Darius’ hands. Sebastian’s three-fold cord had bound them to their inevitable destruction. Growling, Methos slammed the wicket closed and turned toward the other men, intending to order them onto the walls, only to see them running into the heart of the city as if for their lives. “What the—? Where are they going?”

 

“Back to the church,” said Joanna grimly, removing the saddle and harness from Methos’ horse and leading it to a half-filled trough of water to the left of the gate. The animal drank greedily, its limbs visibly shaking. “It took all the gold I had with me to lure them here in the first place, and a sword to keep them here long enough for you to grace us with your presence.”

 

“The _church_? When there’s not a man on the walls? Has everyone gone mad? Did you tell them—”

 

“I told everyone who would listen, including the Dean and Remigius of Rheims—who promptly ordered that every man who could bear arms was to abandon the walls and guard the church and his person—although not necessarily in that order, I fancy. The only men remaining on the walls were the lookout and his runner, who has no doubt reported your arrival to the Archbishop by now.” She gestured toward the lone figure leaning anxiously over the top of the wall several yards away.

 

“Gods!” exploded Methos in a fury, whirling to stride in the direction of the church. “The imbecile! That church is completely indefensible! And what of the people of Lutetia? The walls are their only hope of survival.” As if to emphasize the point, the horns of Darius’ officers, signaling the common soldiers to deploy, echoed along Lutetia’s deserted stone streets.

 

“I rather imagine the survival of the commoners of Lutetia do not occupy a prominent place in his Grace’s thoughts at the moment,” returned Joanna, trotting along beside him. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a man wet himself.”

 

Methos snarled an obscenity. “Where is Lucius?”

 

“Sebastian is tending him in his quarters. Methos—”

 

“Good. Go to them and stay there.”

 

“What?” The amazement and exasperation in Joanna’s voice almost made Methos smile.

 

“Lucius cannot fight and Sebastian will not. They need your protection.”

 

“And you will be…?”

 

Methos growled low in his throat as they approached the main entrance to the Church of Peter and Paul, dismayed by the growing crowd of common folk assembled there; they were no doubt seeking admission to the only place in the city that was to be afforded any protection. By the time the word traveled to the streets beyond the church, Remigius might very well have a riot on his lily-white hands. His eyes inadvertently met those of a little girl clinging to her mother’s hand, and he hastily turned away. “Paying my respects to his Grace the Coward of Rheims.”

 

“Kindly do not get yourself killed,” snapped Joanna in Persian, leading the way through the crowd and up the worn stone steps.

 

“I will give the matter all due thought.” Methos tossed a gold coin into the palm of the armed man who bristled from lounging inattention to menacing vigilance as they approached the door; the man then nodded and withdrew, clutching his sorry-looking weapon in a thoroughly incompetent manner. A murmur of discontent and building anger rose from the small crowd as they passed. “But his Grace will re-deploy our defenses, or so help me, I will hang him over the walls for the amusement of Darius’ archers.”

 

Methos blinked as he passed through the portal into the church, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. Despite Remigius’ purported determination to defend the church, the nave was empty of anything resembling supplies and arms; evidently Remigius did not anticipate a lengthy stay.

 

“His Grace is surrounded by frightened men with little skill at arms,” murmured Joanna. “My father taught me that such men are as likely to kill one by accident as the skilled are by design.”

 

“Your father talked too much,” muttered Methos, noting the number of frightened, unskilled men wandering the nave.

 

“He still does,” said Joanna drily. “Mind your words, _aba_. Remember that this man commands the allegiance of Clovis; his arm is long.”

 

“At this moment, his arm is precisely as long as mine; neither reach beyond the gates of Lutetia,” retorted Methos acidly. “Siege is a great leveler.”

 

Joanna shot him a stern glance, and Methos snorted.

 

“Don’t be concerned. I have no intention of allowing one of these provincial louts to behead me in the act of scratching his ass.”__

“Barbarian.” Joanna visibly fought a grin and turned toward the north transept, where the entrance to the lower levels lay. “I’ll be with Sebastian. Be certain to send me the location of your treasure before they execute you.”

 

Methos restrained an urge, borne of ancient habit, to swat her behind as she disappeared. Grimacing, he peered ahead into the recesses of the church. Somewhere in this absurd monument to delusion was a man set upon jeopardizing every life Methos gave a damn about—most prominently his own. And Methos, despite being resigned to the fact that he’d likely end up fluttering above Darius’ banner, was determined to delay for as long as possible ending his days in such a pathetic backwater of what now passed for civilization. There was much to be done if the city and the people in it were to stand a chance of surviving more than a few hours.

 

“_Marcus Gaius!_”

 

Methos turned, startled to hear his name—or anything else—coarsely shouted in what was supposed to be a holy place. A hush fell in the crowded nave as Methos recognized Rufus, the leader of the mercenaries he’d brought from Rome, striding toward him with a determined expression. Methos had thought he and the rest of his comrades had left the city as soon as they’d received their gold. What in the name of all gods was he still doing here?

 

“Rufus,” he returned in a civil tone as the man came to a halt before him.

 

“You are commanded to the presence of his Grace,” continued Rufus in a haughty tone absurdly at odds with his disreputable appearance and lowborn manner.

 

Methos laughed outright at both the incongruity and the presumption; not six months ago he’d hired Rufus as the man lay drunk on the floor of Rome’s seediest tavern. “I was unaware you’d entered his Grace’s service. Has the Archbishop’s gold led your soul to Christ, Legionary?”

 

Rufus scowled darkly and offered no answer. “He wants to see you _now_. He has a task for you. Come with me.”

 

Methos’ amusement came to an abrupt halt; his temper took the field. The deliberate offense of summoning him so publicly through the offices of a boorish moron who had formerly been under his command was not lost on Methos. Perhaps Sebastian felt bound by duty and faith to turn the other cheek to the author of such indignities, but Methos felt no such obligation. On the contrary, the humiliating treatment Sebastian had received at Remigius’ hands only fueled his indignation and sapped his discretion.

 

“I’m certain his Grace has more than enough lackeys to fetch his chamber pot and wipe his ass,” Methos snapped. “Where is he? There are important matters we must discuss.”

 

“Important matters? With _you_?” Rufus barked a rude laugh. “You’re getting above yourself, Marcus Gaius. You may have gold but I’ll bet my eyes you’re no better born than I am.”

 

“Don’t bet something you can’t afford to lose, Legionary,” returned Methos coldly. “You may well find those eyes of yours roasting on a stick over Darius’ cooking fire.”

 

Rufus paled visibly.

 

“Take me to his Grace. Now.”

 

Rufus whirled in the direction of the south transept, muttering under his breath.

 

Methos followed him, seething, and trying to think; not a productive combination at the best of times, and possibly fatal given his situation. What could Remigius want with him? Whatever it was, Methos was certain it would benefit no one but Remigius. The image of the little girl standing outside the church rose before his mind’s eye. So like Joanna at that age. So like hundreds of others trapped inside these walls. Methos knew full well what her fate would be when Darius’ army breached Lutetia’s pathetic defenses. And yet the one man with the power to protect her, to protect them all, had done nothing but endanger them.

 

Methos shook himself as he passed through the bustle of distraught clerics and grim-faced, panicked men at arms, dismayed at the depths of idiocy to which he had sunk. The girl was a stranger to him. The people of Lutetia were strangers. He was no more responsible for their welfare than they were for his. They were irrelevant. Sebastian might consider them “brothers and sisters,” but they were no kin to Methos. None at all.

 

Methos sighed in resignation, following Rufus down the stairs to the lower chambers. Enough. It was absurd and pointless in the extreme to continue to deny the obvious. He had been hopelessly, thoroughly contaminated by that impossible old man and his mad ideas. The proof was incontrovertible: here he was, about to be impaled, skinned and beheaded by a demented barbarian when he might have been safely on his way to Constantinople—a civilized locale, where he could have lived the life of culture and luxury to which he had become accustomed. At every opportunity to flee impending disaster, he had chosen to remain: for Sebastian, for Lucius, for Joanna, for the little girl whose name he did not know. This form of madness was both virulent and distasteful in the extreme, and Methos wished by everything holy he had never encountered it.

 

“Marcus Gaius, your Grace,” announced Rufus, startling Methos out of his melancholy reverie. The soldier stepped aside to allow Methos to enter a small but richly furnished room, favoring him with a glower in the process. Methos snorted his opinion of Rufus and strode forward to stand before Archbishop Remigius and Dean Eleutherius, who were deep in conversation. Several acolytes stood by, apparently supervising the servants who were packing what appeared to be valuables into several small trunks. After a moment, Remigius turned to look at Methos.

 

“Ah, Marcus Gaius. Our saving angel.” He smiled thinly.

 

“Your Grace.” Methos managed a cool but pleasant tone.

 

“It seems that God has once again chosen you to deliver us.”

 

Methos raised his eyebrows inquiringly and said nothing.

 

Remigius’ eyes narrowed, and he abruptly changed his idiom from Latin to Greek. “Father Sebastian has told me that you are a man well-versed in the arts of both war and letters.”

 

“Father Sebastian honors me,” returned Methos in the same language, noting the confused expressions of the other men in the room.

 

“Such a man will understand what I am about to say.”

 

_Provided I can make allowances for your appalling accent_, thought Methos in considerable irritation.

 

“I have received no reply from Lord Clovis. It is obvious that our messenger has been intercepted.”

 

_Either that, or Clovis has no stomach for pitched battle with Darius of Rome, _observed Methos sourly.

 

“Our military situation is untenable. The city is indefensible.”

 

“Your Grace—”

 

Remigius raised his hand imperiously, and Methos stopped, grinding his teeth in frustration.

 

“The city is indefensible. My person, my _life_, is in jeopardy, and thus my sacred mission—a united, Christian Gaul, under a Christian prince—is imperiled. It is imperative that I, and my entourage, escape this place and rendezvous with Lord Clovis. To that end I shall require your services.”

 

Methos managed to restrain his laughter; never had he seen a finer display of raw cowardice overlaid with righteous pomposity. “My services?”

 

“I hereby empower you to arrange a parley with Darius. You will offer him a ransom for the safe passage of myself, the Dean and my entourage. I have here—”

 

“You intend to abandon the city to Darius,” interrupted Methos softly, wondering why he was sickened; it was a common enough occurrence. It was a rare nobleman or prince of the church who was above bribing an invader to save his wretched hide.

 

Remigius assumed an appropriately saddened expression. “There is no other option.”

 

“With respect, your Grace, there are a great many options! Darius has not had time to deploy his men to the northern bank; another messenger must be sent to Clovis over the north wall at first dark, and the walls must be manned immediately.”

 

“I will not divert defenses from the church to the walls.”

 

“The walls are defensible; the church is not. If Darius were to mount an assault now—”

 

“All the more reason for you to initiate a parley immediately.”

 

“He will take your treasure and slaughter your party to the last man,” said Methos flatly.

 

“He would not dare to violate the terms of a parley with the confessor of Clovis,” replied Remigius, with more hauteur than certainty.

 

“Your Grace, Darius has no more regard for the terms of a parley than you have for the lives of your people,” snapped Methos, provoked beyond discretion.

 

“My _people_?” Remigius gazed at him in blank astonishment.

 

“Has it escaped your Grace’s notice that the city of Lutetia is _populated_?”

 

Remigius’ expression hardened. “You will not take that tone—”

 

“These people are helpless. You have stripped them of their only viable line of defense. Even if Darius should honor the terms of parley and allow you and your party to pass, he will storm the gates before they close again. Lutetia will be raped, slaughtered and burned to the ground.”

 

“It will not—”

 

“But you know this, of course.” Methos laughed softly as the truth of his assertion became plain in the sudden discomfort of the Archbishop’s expression. “Your ransom consists of far more than the baubles in those chests.”

 

Remigius’ face was purple with suppressed wrath. “Marcus Gaius, you presume too much upon my gratitude!”

 

Methos drew a deep breath and modulated his tone, knowing full well that the cause was lost, yet somehow unable to abandon the field. “Father Sebastian has spoken to me of the brotherhood of mankind through Christ. If you abandon—”

 

“Father Sebastian is a heretic and an instigator of heresy in others! He will end as all heretics do, dead and damned by the will of God.” Remigius’ fury drew curious glances from the acolytes and servants. Eleutherius, who had withdrawn to the other side of the room, stared at his Archbishop with a shocked expression; evidently he comprehended enough Greek to follow the gist of the conversation.

 

Methos felt the feeling drain from him; his hand moved with ease to the hilt of his sword in instinctive response to the threat. “I will not barter these people to the most vicious butcher on the continent to save the miserable hide of a false priest.” He spoke in Latin, eliciting gasps from the acolytes and servants. “And if harm should come to Father Sebastian—”

 

“You will do as I command. For if you do not, Father Sebastian will.”

 

The words hung between them for a long moment.

 

Remigius meant what he said; Methos could see it in the man’s eyes. He would send Sebastian, alone, unarmed, before Darius’ blood-drunk army….

 

_Because I am needed._

Methos drew in a sharp breath.

 

_Please, Methos, stay here with me. We have so little time._

No.

 

_I will be ready at dawn._

Sebastian.

 

Methos whirled, shoved Rufus aside and pelted down the corridor toward the steps as fast as his shaking legs could carry him, ignoring Eleutherius’ indignant shouts for him to return. Taking the steps three at a time, he bowled over an unfortunate cleric at the top and sprinted down the aisle toward the door, stumbling over piles of foodstuffs and weapons, pushing servants, soldiers and clerics alike out of his way in a growing panic. He became vaguely aware that someone was tugging at his arm, and he tried to shake them off.

 

“_Aba_, listen to me!”

 

Methos glanced toward the speaker, realized somewhere in his miasma of fear that it was Joanna who had him by the arm, but did not stop moving.

 

“Where are you going? I can’t find Sebastian anywhere. I found a servant taking care of Lucius, and a note for us. It says—”

 

“I know where he is!” panted Methos wildly. He bolted out the door, down the steps, and ploughed through the crowd, pushing and shoving without regard to the cries and curses of the people surrounding him.

 

“Where?” shouted Joanna from behind him, barely audible over the noise of the steadily growing mass of agitated, fearful people around them.

 

“The gate, the gate,” breathed Methos, breaking free of the crowd and running again, running toward the roar of the thousands outside the walls. “Damn the fool, damn him, damn him and his visions, did he really think I would—”

 

“The gate?” Joanna matched his pace, panting hard. “Why the gate? You don’t think—”

 

“Yes!” Rounding the last bend in the crooked street, Methos caught sight of a very young man clambering down the crude, unsteady ladder from the top of the wall. The boy took off running the moment he hit the ground, face white and eyes wide. Methos grabbed him by the arm as he passed; Joanna darted past him to the gate. “What have you seen?”

 

“Let me go!” The boy squirmed and twisted in Methos’ grasp.

 

“You there!” The lookout bellowed from the top of the wall. “Are you mad? Let go of my runner!”

 

“What did you see?” shouted Methos into the boy’s face.

 

“The priest, the Roman priest,” gasped the boy, still struggling. “He’s on the bridge! Let me go!”

 

“Let him go or I’ll beat your head in! Haven’t we madmen enough on our hands?”

 

“Gods,” came in a faint voice from the gate; Joanna was peering through the wicket.

 

Methos flung the boy from him and covered the distance to the gate in a heartbeat to press himself against it, staring with a shrinking soul at the lone cassocked figure standing mid-span on the bridge. Arrayed before him on the far bank was a sea of soldiers; awash in a dozen different war chants and the reverberation of sword upon shield; one tall figure left the mass of shouting warriors to stride to within yards of the Sebastian. He was laughing.

 

Laughing.

 

Methos threw both hands under the massive beam in a frantic and futile effort to move it. “No, _aba_, it’s too late.” Joanna spoke urgently, quietly, as the splinters from the rough-hewn wood dug into Methos’ palms and fingertips; his gaze remained locked upon the two figures on the bridge. The bar wouldn’t move. It wouldn’t move. Blood was dripping down his wrists and arms, and it wouldn’t move. “We can’t open the gate now; his army is fully deployed on the south bank.”

 

Methos drew breath to shout through the wicket. “_Sebastian!_” It was more howl than human voice, and it was subsumed by the thunder of the army on the riverbank.

 

Darius came to a halt not more than five feet from Sebastian and raised his hand; the thousands of mouths and shields behind him fell silent, as if some otherworldly power had stricken them dumb with a random thought. He examined Sebastian as a man might examine a dying animal lying in his path.

 

“Darius of Rome.” Sebastian’s voice was calm and clear; it echoed along the stones of the bridge, and reverberated under Methos’ feet. “Return to the East. There is no victory for you here.”

 

Darius’ eyes widened, then narrowed. “And who will deny me victory, old man?” He glanced up to the unmanned walls and laughed again. “You?”

 

“I will deny you victory,” said Sebastian steadily.

 

Darius’ laughter rang out loudly. “Is this the best defense Lutetia can offer? One dotard priest?”

 

Methos broke from the gate, shoving aside Joanna’s restraining hands and the press of the growing number of the brave and the stupid who could not resist a glimpse what was happening outside, or who had decided to defend the gate despite the Archbishop’s orders to the contrary. Staggering slightly in exhaustion, he sprinted to the flimsy ladder and struggled upward toward the top of the wall.

 

“It will suffice.” Sebastian’s serenity hacked at Methos mind like a dull blade.

 

“God’s blood,” snarled the lookout as Methos scrambled onto the uneven, narrow perch. “You _are _a madman!” His amazed expression turned to horror as Methos seized the ladder and began hoisting it up hand over hand, angling the end over the wall and downward. “No!” He grabbed Methos’ arm, and Methos dealt the man a closed-fisted blow that nearly sent him toppling from the wall. Holding onto the man by the tunic, Methos hastily hauled him back and laid him along the top of the wall, then lowered the ladder to the ground; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darius take a step toward Sebastian.

 

“Old man, you are mad.”

 

Another ladder slapped into place a few feet away. “_Aba!_ Wait!”

 

_Damn her. _“Go back!” Methos flung his feet over the wall and slid the twenty feet down the rails, ripping both hands and boot leather in the process. He hit the ground running—running toward the bridge, toward the two men who stood upon it within such deadly proximity of each other.

 

“And you will die.”

 

“_Sebastian! Run!_” Methos’ scream split the new silence, clearly audible now to the men on the bridge and every spectator on both riverbanks. Darius turned to note his approach with a growing, feral smile.

 

Sebastian did not turn.

 

“And so will Marcus Gaius,” continued Darius.

 

“You will not harm Marcus Gaius.” Sebastian’s voice sharpened slightly.

 

Methos tripped over the rubble littering the slope to the bridge and staggered upright again, struggling to draw his sword. “_Don’t touch him! I challenge you, Darius of Rome—”_

 

Darius laughed again, drawing his sword. “I will drink your blood and his as Lutetia burns.”

 

Methos gained the top of the slope and stumbled onto the bridge as he managed to pull his sword from its sheath. “_You’re mine!_” A battle-frenzy he’d not felt in centuries infused his limbs with strength, propelling him forward with his sword raised over his head; he perceived with savage delight that Darius’ wild, glittering gaze had left Sebastian and rested upon him.

 

Sebastian appeared to perceive it, too; he lunged forward to seize Darius’ sword arm. Darius tossed him aside as if he were made of paper, and with one clean, backhanded stroke, sliced through Sebastian’s neck.

 

Methos started screaming then, and kept screaming as he ran toward the body crumpling to the stones, to the head now rolling toward him down the gentle slope of the bridge. The soldiers on the far bank howled and beat their shields, drowning out the raw-throated keening that threatened to tear Methos apart. Darius kicked Sebastian’s body out of his path and ran toward Methos, shrieking like a demon, the priest’s blood still dripping from his uplifted sword. “_Your skin, your skin, Marcus Gaius!_”

 

Methos swung wildly, blindly at the oncoming juggernaut, his sword parrying Darius’ more by accident than design; he stared into Darius’ maddened expression over the gleam of their joined blades, screaming into that face with all his rapidly depleting strength. An explosion of brilliant light and a deafening crash of thunder accompanied a violent concussion of air that flung Methos backward to land on his back several feet away. Struggling into a sitting position, he stared in dull incomprehension at the sight of Darius, frozen in place, eyes wide and mouth open, his body bathed in a light that seemed to emanate from within. Darius cried out some words in a tongue Methos had never heard, and dropped his sword. He lifted his arms heavenward.

 

A violent wind rose, striking both bridge and riverbank with violent fury, whipping the waters of the Seine into frothy peaks as uncounted tendrils of lightning arced downward through the blackened sky to explode on contact with bridge, water, earth, and man. A thousand screams arose from the riverbank as heaven’s fire pierced mortal bodies; the sound of those cries was as deafening as the stench of scorched flesh was pervasive. Darius’ orderly ranks of soldiers were at once broken and in disarray, a churning mass of frenetically moving humanity, but Methos caught only a glimpse of them before a black, glistening wall rose with a roar to block his view.

 

“Gods,” whispered Methos. He clutched his sword in an absurd defensive reflex; only then realizing what he was seeing. The Seine was rising to defend the city built between her arms, rising to form a rippling, swirling barrier that encircled the bridge and sealed it and the gates of Lutetia from all approach. He was trapped now inside a massive fountain of water that extended far into the ebony sky, the white foam of its upper edge lit, in brief flashes, by the lightning that still crackled around it.

 

Darius lowered his arms and fixed his gaze upon Methos; Methos stared back in stunned confusion. Not one bolt of the lightning that raged outside the Seine’s defensive chamber had struck Darius of Rome; not one scream of pain had escaped him; he had taken Sebastian’s quickening as if it were no more to him than sipping a glass of wine.

 

“Pick up your sword,” Methos heard himself saying, amazed that he could hear anything above the roar of the water, the explosions of the lightning, the screams from both sides of the riverbank.

 

Darius said nothing, but regarded him with a mild, saddened expression that was painfully incongruous with the blood that spattered his face.

 

“Pick up your sword!” screamed Methos, staggering to his feet. “Or I’ll take your damned head where you stand!”

 

“Methos,” murmured Darius. “Son.”

 

Methos froze. Methos? _Methos?_

 

“Forgive me.”

 

Methos drew a shaky breath. For an Immortal to assimilate a quickening so quickly was unheard of … and yet everything before his eyes at this moment was unheard of. And so very like Darius it was, to taunt Methos with his newly acquired memories. So very like the man infamous for drinking the blood of children. Darius now knew everything that Sebastian had known; every cherished moment of his and Methos’ friendship was Darius’ to use as he would.

 

It was a profanation.

 

“You will not mock me when your head is spiked on Lutetia’s gate,” snarled Methos, his fury once again feeding his strength. “I told you what I would do if you touched me or mine!”

 

Darius stepped closer with an anguished expression, one hand held out in entreaty. “I _am _yours, child. ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.’ Close your eyes and see me with your heart—”

 

“I will not play your demented games! Pick up your sword!”

 

“You know I will not do that. Methos, it is I. Can you not try to understand—”

 

Methos let loose with something between a roar and a scream and launched himself at Darius, but before he had taken two steps the general had knelt upon the bridge stones and bowed his head.

 

The Seine fell. Thirty foot walls of water thundered into their source in the riverbed, sending great waves washing over the bridge and both banks, consuming anything or anyone unfortunate enough to remain in their path. Methos was struck and pinioned inside a wave before he could prepare himself for the impact. Tumbling head over heels along the paving stones, he slammed into something with such force that it drove the air from his lungs. He clawed wildly for the surface of the water, but he had no idea of which direction to swim; all was dark, wet and churning violence. And then, just as suddenly, he was spitting out water and breathing the cool, humid air, blinking in the brilliant sunshine.

 

Methos realized in numb horror that the water had driven him all the way back to the gate; he lay among the ruins of the oaken timbers that had protected the city. Smoke was rising from the soaked, blackened wreckage—the destruction of the gate had obviously been the work of lightning and not flood. Methos wiped water and river mud from his face and stared at the far bank. Fleeing, screaming soldiers streamed away from a riverbank strewn with the dead and the dying for as far as he could see. There was no order; men had abandoned their banners, shields and weapons and were running as fast as their legs could carry them, stumbling in the mud and over the bodies of their comrades. Those still on horseback, and they were few, were already in the distance, galloping away at top speed. Many dead horses lay among the human remains. Darius’ army was broken.

 

Darius.

 

Methos struggled to his feet, gasping in pain as the wounds inflicted by his impact with the gate timbers made themselves known. He scanned the bridge, but there was no sign of Darius of Rome. All that remained was Sebastian’s body, soaked and battered, moved near the end of the bridge. His head had rolled into the mud a few feet away.

 

_“Darius!” _Methos let loose a howl, grief and rage filling his lungs with air enough to make himself heard; his cry echoed against the blackened, drenched walls of Lutetia, but there was no answer. Stumbling through wreckage, Methos shoved past the frightened, curious people who were beginning to venture through the broken gate, and made his way to the bridge, to Sebastian. Lifting the severed head carefully from the mud, he carried it to Sebastian’s body, and fell to his knees.

 

“Damned. Lunatic. Priest,” Methos whispered brokenly, stroking the long, grey hair, wiping away the mud. “You were needed … for this? For this? There was no one in Lutetia, in all of Gaul, worth your _fingertip_, and you were needed _for this? _We would have gone to Constantinople. You would have taught me to cheat at _shatranj_. You would have taught me….” Methos’ voice gave out and the sobs came, came up from his belly to shred his throat and shake his frame; he doubled over, cradling the muddy, bleeding head tenderly as he rested his forehead on Sebastian’s twisted body.

 

“_Aba,_” someone whispered in his ear.

 

Methos knew that Joanna had an arm about his shoulders, but he could no more stem the tide of the violent grief that had seized him than he could bring Sebastian back from the dead.

 

“It was his time, _aba_. He’d lived a long life. He chose to die that others might live.”

 

Methos raised his head. “_Damn others!_” he spat in rage, coughing, unable to control the terrible spasmodic sobbing that had seized him. “Damn them all! There’s not one of them worthy of him, not one! If it would bring Sebastian back, I’d burn this damned place to the ground myself! Where is Darius?”

 

“Methos—”

 

“You were on the wall. You must have seen—”

 

“When the waters fell, all that could be seen was the flood. He must have been washed away downstream.”

 

“Get me a horse. Any horse. I’ll find him.”

 

“And be killed yourself?” Joanna’s voice sharpened. “You are wounded, exhausted and weaponless. Did Sebastian surrender his life so that you might squander your own?”

 

Methos drew a trembling breath.

 

Joanna gentled her tone. “Bury your dead, _aba. _And live. He wanted so much for you to live.”

 

Methos’ rage dispersed like a paper fire in a gust of wind. The image of the frightened child outside the church stabbed his mind’s eye, and groaning, Methos knew that he had misjudged his own desires. Rage was not death unless a man made it so. And he was too much the man Sebastian had believed him to be to exact deadly vengeance upon the innocent, or even upon Darius. Even now, Death had no dominion. Especially now.

 

“He asked in his note that we care for Lucius,” murmured Joanna, rising. “We should see that all is well with him.”

 

Nodding brusquely, Methos laid Sebastian’s severed head on the body, and with an effort, lifted the body into his arms. Joanna went before him, making a path through the growing crowds of jubilant townspeople. Most drew back in horror as they recognized Methos’ burden, crossing themselves and murmuring prayers. A somber silence followed them through the celebrating populace as they made their way through the rapidly filling streets to the church.

 

The steps to the portals, so recently crowded with desperate and dangerous people, were empty; even the guards had abandoned their posts. Methos staggered up the steps and into the nave, then strode with exhausted determination toward the altar, avoiding with difficulty the clothing, food, pails of water and weapons of every description that lay strewn in his path. The church had obviously been abandoned very quickly.

 

“Methos, what are you doing?” Joanna was instantly at his elbow. “We should take him to his chamber and see if Lucius—”

 

“He was a Christian priest,” said Methos through gritted teeth. “He will have the Christian funeral rites. See to Lucius, and then find the Dean.”

 

Joanna sighed, and with a light touch to Methos’ arm, disappeared in the direction of the south transept.

 

Methos made his unsteady way up the aisle, all too aware of the eerie silence, the emptiness that reigned in the church that only an hour before had been a cauldron of human activity. Empty. Empty inside. Methos wondered vaguely where the clergy had gone, then snarled involuntarily at the thought that perhaps they were outside among the peasants and soldiers, who had no doubt crossed the bridge by now to celebrate their deliverance by robbing the dead and the dying.

 

Methos lay Sebastian, with infinite gentleness, before the altar, and arranged his body. Snatching a linen cloth from the altar, he cleaned his friend’s face and hands, then closed the blue eyes, smoothed his hair and the folds of his drenched cassock and folded his hands over his chest. He gave way then, still on his knees, sobbing quietly.

 

Methos knew he was responsible for this. Whatever Sebastian’s delusions had been about his destiny, Methos could have prevented him from making this sacrifice of pointless, selfless love. If he had been here, if he had not been dashing about the countryside acting the hero, Sebastian would never have been able to reach the door of his cell, let alone the gates of Lutetia. Darius would never have laid eyes on either of them. He was responsible….

 

“I’m sorry,” Methos whispered, stunned into childish remorse, knowing even as he did so that Sebastian could no longer hear him. His soul was lost, imprisoned and subsumed in that maelstrom of bloodlust that was Darius of Rome. The world at large was diminished by that loss; Methos’ world was shattered by it. Of what use was faith now, when love lay dead, its blood still dripping silently upon the stones of Paul of Tarsus’ church? “Though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not _love_ I am nothing.” Methos could not even sustain a whisper; the sound broke and gave way to a barely audible sob.

 

A soft noise, quickly suppressed, brought Methos’ head up abruptly, and he instinctively felt for his sword. His scabbard was empty; too late he remembered that the blade was in all likelihood lying under the rubble of the gate or at the bottom of the Seine. Glancing about, he seized one of the discarded swords, and, rising slowly, made his way in silence around the altar toward the source of the sound. Behind the altar, Methos found a lone figure huddling on the floor, clutching the altar cloth convulsively, and unable to restrain himself, he began to laugh bitterly.

 

“Has your Grace lost something?”

 

Remigius looked up at him, his face twisted in terror, and said nothing.

 

“I have lost something also,” continued Methos in an ugly tone. Without further preamble he grabbed Remigius by the front of his rich vestments and hauled him up. “Come, see what your cowardice has cost me, false priest.”

 

“The wrath of God,” stuttered Remigius incoherently as Methos dragged him forcibly from his hiding place. “The sentry reports that the wrath of God has destroyed the gates and raised the very waters against us!”

 

“Cease to concern yourself with the wrath of God,” snarled Methos, dragging the archbishop to the front of the altar. “And devote yourself to the contemplation of _my _wrath, charlatan.” He threw Remigius onto his knees before Sebastian’s body.

 

Remigius gasped and cringed at the sight.

 

“Because you abandoned the defense of the city walls, this man was forced to face the most feared army in Europe, alone, unarmed, knowing he would die, to save those he considered his brothers and sisters in Christ.” Methos restrained an overwhelming urge to kick the groveling creature to death; his sword hand itched for a blow.

 

“The soldiers,” whined Remigius, still wide-eyed with mindless panic. “The soldiers abandoned the church! The acolytes stripped their vestments and fled. The hordes of Darius will descend upon us. God has forsaken us!” He reached out to clutch Methos’ hand; Methos repelled him violently. “You must protect me! I am a prince of the church—”

 

“You are a worm,” said Methos coldly. “God forsook you long ago.”

 

“I have gold, gems! See me safely to King Clovis and I shall reward you beyond your wildest dreams!”

 

“I should not evoke my wildest dreams, if I were you.” Methos managed with difficulty to dispel his instinct to strangle the priest with his bare hands. “Where are the Dean and the priests of this place?”

 

“I do not know. We each sought our own hiding place. There is no time to find them and take them with us! Darius’ army—”

 

“Is scattered, and Darius has fled. Your sentry quit the wall too soon. Summon the priests!”

 

Remigius gaped and said nothing.

 

“I said, summon the priests!” shouted Methos. “Father Sebastian must have the funeral rites of his calling.”

 

Remigius rose to his feet, the hauteur returning to his expression as comprehension dawned. “Almighty God has delivered us?”

 

Methos barked a contemptuous laugh. “Surely your Grace’s _faith_ was not shaken.”

 

Remigius regarded him with narrowed eyes as he smoothed his robes. “My faith is beyond your understanding, Marcus Gaius.”

 

“On the contrary, I understand all too well.” Methos took no trouble to conceal his sneer. “Now summon the priests. Father Sebastian’s rites must be performed immediately.”

 

Remigius glanced at Sebastian’s body, then met Methos’ gaze with supercilious expression and a lip curled in distaste. “There shall be no rites of Christian burial for this man.”

 

Methos stepped closer, shocked. “What did you say?”

 

“He was a heretic, struck down by God himself, as I foretold.”

 

“He was a true priest of your God, and he was struck down by Darius of Rome while defending your miserable hide!” Methos’ appalled shout echoed loudly in the nave, but Remigius appeared unmoved.

 

_“Quibus viventibus non communicavimus mortuis communicare non possumus__·__,”_ intoned Remigius, crossing himself.

 

Methos felt something inside him snap like a dry twig. Bounding forward, he seized Remigius by the back of his robes and sliced his sword in a menacing arc toward the archbishop’s throat. Remigius cried out in uninhibited terror.

 

“You hold communion with Death, worm,” hissed Methos in Remigius’ ear. “You dance on the edge of the abyss. You will give Father Sebastian a funeral worthy of a king, or I shall hack your head from your shoulders and spike it above the church door.”

 

“God’s mercy,” gasped Remigius, clutching Methos’ sword arm.

 

“Marcus Gaius,” gasped a shocked voice.

 

Methos nearly sliced Remigius’ neck in his surprise. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw Eleutherius hurrying down the aisle toward him, followed by several priests.

 

“Please. Marcus Gaius. Release the Archbishop. Father Sebastian shall have a funeral mass.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes, I will conduct the mass myself,” babbled Remigius. “A king’s mass.”

 

“I swear it shall be done,” said Eleutherius unsteadily. “It must be done. I was at the gate.”

 

Methos’ laugh twisted into a snarl. “Were you indeed? You amaze me. Did you watch him die for you, priest, this man you treated as slave?  Your master in Rome will be greatly pleased; you have truly earned your thirty pieces of silver.”

 

“Enough!” The priest’s expression was tortured. “What you speak of is between my God and myself. Father Sebastian shall be accorded every dignity.”

 

“Meaning you grant him in death what you disdained to grant him in life,” retorted Methos in a savage tone.

 

“Exactly so,” said Eleutherius evenly, meeting Methos’ gaze.

 

Methos recoiled from the self-loathing in the man’s face; he knew that look, that state of mind, all too well to examine it deeply. Drawing a deep, shaking breath, he released Remigius, who staggered, wild-eyed and panting, to the far side of the altar, eyeing Methos as one would an untamed beast. Methos heard the sound of soft voices behind him, but was too weary to turn.

 

Eleutherius knelt beside Sebastian, crossed himself, and began to pray. _“Kyrie, rex genitor ingenite, vera essentia, eleyson.” _

_Lord, King and Father unbegotten, True Essence of the Godhead, have mercy on us. _

Methos’ vision blurred and his fingers went limp; he heard rather than felt the sword fall from his hand and strike the floor. He was dimly aware that others, the priests and several others he did not recognize, had knelt beside Eleutherius and joined him in prayer. _“Kyrie, luminis fons rerumque conditor, eleyson.”_

 

_Lord, Fount of light and Creator of all things, have mercy on us. _

Blinking to clear his vision, Methos raised his gaze to Remigius, who hastily sank to his knees and bowed his head. _“Kyrie, qui nos tuæ imaginis signasti specie, eleyson.”_

 

_Lord, Thou who hast signed us with the seal of Thine image, have mercy on us. _

The signature of an Immortal touched him, but still he could not find the strength to turn, or even to stand. He collapsed to his knees and bent over to rest his head upon the rough stone floor. He could hear that many more people had entered the nave; they had joined the priests in prayer. _“Christe, Dei forma humana particeps, eleyson.”_

 

_Christ, True God and True Man, have mercy on us. _

Someone knelt beside him, touched his arm, whispered in his ear. “Methos. Lucius is gone.”

 

Methos managed to raise his head enough to look at Joanna, but comprehension eluded him. “Gone? Lucius is gone?” Even his whisper shook with exhaustion.

 

_“Christe, lux oriens per quem sunt omnia, eleyson.”_

_Christ, Rising Sun, through whom are all things, have mercy on us. _

Joanna’s gaze was fixed upon Sebastian, her whisper strained. “He is not in Sebastian’s chamber, and the servant who was tending him is nowhere to be found.”

 

“What … how … he could not have left of his own accord. Not so soon.” Methos’ fogged mind struggled to reason. “He must have had help.”

 

“Very likely the servant helped him to leave the church.”

 

_“Christe, qui perfecta es sapientia, eleyson.” _

_Christ, Perfection of Wisdom, have mercy on us. _

“The servant?”

 

“Sebastian bequeathed Lucius his gold. In his letter to us,” she added quickly, her eyes never leaving Sebastian. “It is a large fortune; Lucius will never want.”

 

_“Kyrie, spiritus vivifice, vitæ vis, eleyson.”_

_Lord, vivifying Spirit and power of life, have mercy on us. _

“Where would he go? _Why _would he go?” whispered Methos, bereft.

 

Joanna pressed his arm comfortingly. “He is broken in body and spirit, _aba_. He needs to be free of this place, of everything that reminds him of Darius, so that both may heal. You have known such times.”

 

Methos nodded bleakly. Yes. He had known such times.

 

_“Kyrie, utriqusque vapor in quo cuncta, eleyson.”_

_Lord, Breath of the Father and the Son, in Whom are all things, have mercy on us. _

“Don’t mourn so,” murmured Joanna. Her face was wet. “You will see him again.”

 

Methos nodded again and lowered his head, no more able to endure the thought of Lucius wounded and alone at this moment than he was the sight of Sebastian’s blood slowly drying on the stones of Holy Ground.

 

“And you will heal also. All will be well, Methos.” Joanna’s voice held the edge of desperation. “You will see.”

 

_“Kyrie, expurgator scelerum et largitor gratitæ; quæsumus propter nostrasoffensas noli no relinquere, O consolator dolentis animæ, eleyson.”_

_Lord, Purger of sin and Almoner of grace, we beseech Thee abandon us not because of our Sins, O Consoler of the sorrowing soul, have mercy on us._

“Through a glass, darkly,” said Methos dully.

 

***

 

 

Methos waited, eyes closed, for one of his companions to break the silence. He waited a long time.

 

“Jesus Christ.” Joe’s voice was hoarse. “Jesus Christ, Adam. I’m sorry.”

 

Methos nodded in silent gratitude. Platitudes transcended their usual vapidity when they came from Joe Dawson.

 

“So much for legends.” Richie sounded more saddened than bitter. “Sorry about your friend, man. Both your friends.”

 

Methos tried to respond and found his throat uncooperative.

 

“So … Lucius and Darius just disappeared into thin air?” Richie’s voice was tentative, and Methos realized with considerable irritation that the child was being _gentle_ with him.

 

“Not quite,” he muttered, opening his eyes. The look on Joe’s face almost made him wish he hadn’t. He cleared his throat and forged ahead. “Lucius evidently had procured an entire retinue of servants by the time he left Lutetia, and he managed to evade me completely while doing it.”

 

“You looked for him,” said Joe quietly.

 

“I looked for both of them.”

 

“You looked for Darius in Lutetia?” Richie sounded surprised. “He must have been miles away by the time you started.”

 

“He was in the church the entire time,” said Methos flatly.

 

“You found him?”

 

“No. I found out later. Joanna had hidden him in the catacombs.”

 

“You are shitting me!” Richie’s eyes went wide. “After everything Darius did to her? After Lucius? After Sebastian? Why, for God’s sake?”

 

“She was deluded.” Methos uttered the words with as much clinical detachment as he could muster. “She’d been under Darius’ power too long to shake his influence so quickly. He spun some wild tale that convinced her to help him.”

 

“Wild tale?” Joe leaned forward.

 

Methos forced a laugh from his lungs. “He told her he was Sebastian.”

 

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Come again?”

 

“He told her he was Sebastian. That the quickening had conveyed not only his power, but his consciousness.”

 

“Uh….” Richie looked from Methos to Joe uncertainly. “That…uh…doesn’t happen, does it?”

 

“Of course it doesn’t bloody happen!” snapped Methos.

 

Joe leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. “Two years ago I didn’t think dark quickenings happened, either.”

 

“Excuse me.” Methos sat upright, containing an inexplicable surge of anger and panic with difficulty. “I have been around a hell of a lot longer than either of you, and I am telling you that _it doesn’t happen_.”

 

“Exactly how old was Sebastian?”

 

“I don’t know! Even _he _didn’t know, not precisely. Older than me.”

 

“Older than you were then, or now?”

 

“Geez,” muttered Richie, evidently appalled at the thought of anyone older than Methos.

 

Methos glared. “What difference does it make?”

 

“Because we don’t know what really happens when an ancient Immortal is taken,” said Joe in an urgent tone. “We’ve never seen anyone older than a couple millennia lose a challenge. Is there a point where an ancient is so powerful that the personality of the winner is completely overwhelmed by it? Hell, we have no idea!”

 

“I do,” said Methos icily. “It doesn’t happen. End of discussion.” Methos saw Joe and Richie exchange glances, and threw himself back on the sofa to glare at the ceiling. “I should have known she was lying to me. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. She never could do when she was lying. It was Darius’ fortune that Lucius inherited, of course. If I’d been thinking I would have realized that. Sebastian had given away the last of his wealth long before I met him.”

 

Richie nodded. “So Darius gives Lucius all his money and Lucius hires some servants and splits. And then—”

 

“The first dead Watcher was delivered a month later.” Joe sighed and leaned back in his chair.

 

“Bestowing almost unlimited wealth on a lunatic,” snarled Methos, unable to restrain himself. “The stars are displaced by the towering wisdom of Darius the Beneficent.”

 

“Maybe Darius didn’t know,” suggested Richie. “I mean, maybe nobody knew. Maybe Lucius acted completely normal.”

 

“I doubt Darius ever spoke to Lucius,” mused Joe. “He would never have wanted Lucius to know that he was there, or where the money was coming from. Lucius would never have accepted it if he’d known.”

 

“Joanna told the servant to tell him that it was from me,” said Methos bitterly. “Lucius was very grateful, she said.”

 

“Did you ever see Lucius again?”

 

Richie’s voice faded, lowered, twisted into another.

 

_Do you see, Marcus, how the skin pulls away?_

The cloying darkness, the smell of straw and torch oil and blood and human waste, the screams and frantic clanking of chains, and over it all, that familiar voice.

 

_Patience, Marcus. You will take his place soon enough. Will he not, Nathan? Do you hear, Marcus, how your Gabriel’s screams weaken? Soon he will be silent forever._

“Methos?” Richie’s alarmed voice cut through the wave of memory, but could not dispel it.

 

Methos sprang from the couch and sprinted toward the bathroom, managing to reach the toilet before the first wave of vomiting seized him.

 

“Christ Jesus.” He could hear Joe’s shaking voice clearly over his retching. “Christ Jesus. No, Rich, let him be for a minute.”

 

“What the fuck is going on?”

 

“He saw Lucius again, okay? Come back here and sit down.”

 

“How do you—?”

 

“You remember what Étienne said about Gabriel’s lost chronicle?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Gabriel was a Watcher in Constantinople in 1096.”

 

_Observe how they beg for each other’s lives, Nathan. What do you think? Friends? Brothers? Lovers?_

“He and his partner Stephanos had tracked Lucius’ most recent kills. They had this theory that Lucius had traveled across Europe with the mob of the First Crusade, which had just arrived in Constantinople, and that his next victim would be right there in the city.”

 

_He took far longer to die than I had expected. Do not weep, Marcus. Let it comfort you to know that his suppositions concerning my movements were correct. His work has been vindicated; be joyous, then. _

“Constantinople was the center of western civilization. The Watchers had a huge presence there. The Watchers’ Council couldn’t believe that Lucius would ever dare to strike so close to the heart of their operation.”

 

“But he did.”

 

“Yeah. His goons snatched Gabriel and Stephanos right off the street. He even sent a letter to the Council telling them what he’d done, taunting them about how they’d be next. Every Watcher in the city was assigned to the search. Gabriel’s body was delivered on silver platters two days later. It took another day to find Stephanos.”

 

_“Nathan, remove this carcass and have it delivered in the appropriate manner. Since Marcus has begged to take his friend’s place, let us oblige him.”_

“And the Watchers got him out of there?”

 

Methos flushed the toilet and staggered up to douse his face with cool water, leaning heavily on the sink, then stuck his mouth under the faucet to slurp the water greedily.

 

“No. They had just surrounded the house when all hell broke loose inside. The Watchers heard fighting going on, and the place caught fire, and then there was a quickening. As far as they knew, Lucius was the only Immortal there, so—”

 

“So they figured he’d bought it. Did Stephanos make it out?”

 

Joe paused for a moment. When he spoke again, it was in a strained voice. “Yeah. He made it out. He … he’d been tortured. He was pretty bad, from what the Watchers who found him said. They carried him to a safe house, but he disappeared within hours. He left his final report and his resignation behind. The Watchers never saw him again.”

 

Methos buried his face in one of Joe’s soft towels.

 

“Until about ten years ago.”

 

Methos froze for a moment, then dropped the towel to the floor and staggered back into the living room. Joe looked up quickly as he entered, every contour of his face a study in compassion.

 

“Come again?” Richie was staring at Joe blankly.

 

Methos lost his balance, and collapsed heavily onto the couch. “How did you know?” he whispered.

 

***

 

 

The telephone rang at one of the clock. It was an unreasonable hour for conversation, and he turned from his computer screen toward the relatively unfamiliar instrument with annoyance. Very few knew how to reach him here, and only one would dare to attempt it at this time of night. He activated the speakerphone. “Speak, dog.”

 

There was a pause. “You have an odd way of showing your gratitude.”

 

“You may infer my gratitude from your continued existence. Why do you disturb me at this hour?”

 

“I have another gift for you. Another pledge of my good faith.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Obsequious fool. What need had he of gifts? This gleaming silver disk so generously provided by the late Watcher Zwirner contained all that was required to find and destroy each and every one of his God-cursed kind. Still, the dog had no need to know this. It should be humored for the time being. It might yet prove useful.

 

“You will find my gift waiting outside the apartment building at 351 Rue de la Fontaine. A very young man with fair hair who answers to the name of Étienne Dupré.”

 

“Your assistant.” This dog’s treachery knew no limits, and yet it had the audacity to speak of good faith. “Why is he there? Whom does he Watch?”

 

“No one important. I’ve sent him on a fool’s errand.”

 

“I see.” _The dog seeks to use me as a weapon for his own purposes. His person of no importance is of great importance._

Another pause. “Well? Do you accept the gift?”

 

“Certainly. Your gift is accepted in precisely the spirit in which it was intended.”

 

Yet another brief silence. The dog was uncertain; fear and the baring of fangs would inevitably result. “I told you my intentions when I freed you. I want to make reparation for what our people did to you. I want to help you in your search for justice.” The tone was defensive, strident...fearful.

 

_The craven dog thinks me as simple-minded as it is. _“So you did. And my search for justice lives again. Are you not content?”

 

More silent confusion. It was a very stupid dog. “I’m content. I just want to be sure that we understand each other.”

 

“I understand you very well indeed, Shapiro. How long will your gift remain at this address?”

 

“All night, I imagine. I told him to stay there as long as it took to complete his errand, and I don’t think he’ll be able to do that until morning.”

 

“Very well. The matter is in hand.” He deactivated the speaker and sat in thought for a moment. Then he called softly over his shoulder. “Nathan.”

 

“Master?”

 

He smiled involuntarily. In nine hundred years, Nathan had not changed. He was as vigilant and loyal in Paris as he had been in Mainz where they had met; as he had been along the blood-soaked paths of the Crusade; as he had been during the humiliation of his capture; as he had been during the long years of imprisonment. Nathan never changed.

 

And neither did he himself. “An enemy awaits you at this address.” He handed a slip of paper to the seemingly-young man who came forward, head bowed with appropriate deference. “Take him and bring him here.”

 

 “At once, Master.”

 

“And let one of your men remain behind. Instruct him to photograph each person who enters or leaves this building for the next twenty-four hours.”

 

 “It shall be done, Master.” Nathan disappeared instantly at his master’s wave of dismissal.

 

He turned back to the computer. It had taken him surprisingly little time to gain an understanding of the machine, once he had obtained books on the subject. He smiled grimly. Marcus Gaius had told him once that books were the universal key to achieving any goal, and his old friend had been proven correct once again. He slowly typed the address he had been given into the device. A photograph of a man approaching his fiftieth year appeared, and he scanned the accompanying text with interest. An item in the first paragraph caught his surprised attention, and he reread it aloud. “Historian. Specialization: Medieval Europe. Author of ‘An Analysis of Lucius Germanicus.’ Definitive study.”

 

He sat back in his chair for a moment, nonplused, then began to laugh softly. So. This Watcher had _analyzed _him. His laughter increased in volume, echoing from the bare walls in eerie counterpoint. _Studied_ him. He stopped laughing and leaned forward to observe the photograph intently.

 

“And now _I _shall study _you_. Let us see what Joseph Dawson has to teach.”

 

 

 

* * *

· We cannot hold communion in death with those who in life were not in communion with us.


	5. Chapter 5

Joe had never seen precisely that look on Methos before, and it scared the hell out of him. He looked impossibly young, and impossibly frightened. Methos had obviously taken one too many hits to the head tonight. “Handwriting,” he said with as much gentleness as exhaustion would allow. He ignored Richie, whose jaw was in danger of developing rug-burn from scraping the carpet. “When you wrote your report and resignation, you lapsed into your old handwriting.”

 

“My old—”

 

“I had access to Marcus Gaius’ papers. The writing was identical. No way to get around it.”

 

“You didn’t include that in your report.” Methos’ voice cracked.

 

Joe shrugged marginally, doing his best to keep his manner soothing. A freaked-out Methos was disconcerting enough; a losing-it Methos would push him past the limits of his already depleted endurance. “There was a lot of stuff I didn’t publish. No corroborating evidence.”

 

“Why?” sputtered Richie, finally finding his voice. “Why would he do that to you? You saved his life!”

 

“I was a Watcher again.”

 

“But—”

 

“There are no other considerations in Lucius’ world view.” Methos sank to the sofa, visibly unsteady on his feet; Richie glanced at Joe, openly horrified.

 

Joe nodded in response, his fatigued mind contemplating, as best it could, the essential unfairness of the universe. Why the hell did this have to be Methos? Why couldn’t Marcus Gaius and Stephanos have been some poor mortal schmucks who died centuries ago? “Why the Watchers again? I would have thought you’d had enough the last time.”

 

“I’d been away from Europe for centuries. I needed information.”

 

“And then you heard about Lucius.”

 

“Yes. The demon, the apostate of hell, the mad Immortal who killed Watchers at will without being either seen or heard. He could fly, you know, and shape-shift, and summon the dead from their graves.” Methos tried to snort contemptuously and failed. “His legend was fully established by the time I became aware of his presence in Europe.” Methos leaned back and closed his eyes. “I should have left. I should have gone back to Egypt.”

 

“But you didn’t,” said Joe quietly. “You helped Gabriel—”

 

“Die young,” cut in Methos brutally. “Yes. God only knows how Lucius discovered I’d joined the Watchers. But he did. His intelligence operation was better than that of most governments of the time.”

 

“How did you get out of there?” Richie’s voice was barely audible, and Joe restrained a sigh. They were all in pretty sorry shape for a bunch of guys preparing to take on the most dangerous Immortal on the planet.

 

“Joanna,” was the unexpected reply.

 

“Joanna?” Joe sat up straight in surprise. “How the hell did she know where you were?”

 

“She didn’t.” Methos’ voice was drowsy now. “Tracking Lucius.” A sigh punctuated his last words, and he went still. Joe waited a few seconds before he realized that the man had fallen asleep.

 

“But whose—?” began Richie, but Joe nudged him with the tip of his cane and shook his head.

 

“Later. Let him sleep.” Joe hauled himself to his feet and made his way toward his bedroom. “You get some rest, too, Rich. I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be one hell of a day.”

 

“Count on it,” grumbled Richie, stretching out on the floor. “I’ll bet he snores, too.”

 

***

 

 

The iron chains sliced deeper into the open wounds on his arms and legs as he strained against them; his throat, raw from screaming, continued its keening as the knife was yanked from his abdomen and thrust before his face, his blood forming delicate patterns on the blade.

 

“The sight of the blade appears to disturb Marcus Gaius, Master.” A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man dressed in rich linen leaned over him, a vicious sneer twisting his face.

 

_Marcus Gaius? I’m not … Marcus Gaius. I’m not-_

“Perhaps, then, it would be best that Marcus Gaius not see the blade,” answered a deeper voice, thick with loathing. “Or aught else. Take his eyes, Nathan.”

 

_Marcus Gaius … not my eyes, not—_

Nathan pinioned his head between his arm and his chest, gripping his chin tightly as he shifted his grip on the knife. “Remember my face well, traitor,” he hissed. “It is the last you shall ever see.”

 

_No no no no no-_

Hot agony sliced into his right eye, obliterating sight, as his scream echoed off the vaulted stone ceilings, as Lucius’ dark, soft laughter sounded in his ear, as his own blood gushed onto his face, as Nathan yanked out the knife and shifted his grip to gouge his left.

 

_But it’s not me… It’s not me… I’m not…_

_“Methos!”_

 

Duncan MacLeod bolted into a sitting position, shrieking Methos’ name at the top of his lungs, and struggling against the bedclothes that had entwined themselves about him like a shroud.

 

He stared wildly about, his mind refusing, at first, to acknowledge his body’s surroundings. The interior of the barge was brightly lit and clearly visible; he could no longer bring himself to turn the lights off when he went to bed. He was back. He was home. It was over...for now.

 

Duncan felt his heart racing; his entire body was drenched in sweat and trembling. His eyes scanned the vicinity of the bed frantically, then rested feverishly on the object of their search.

 

He clawed his way out of the covers and out of the bed, stumbling and falling to his hands and knees. Not bothering to get up, he crawled to the abandoned whiskey bottle and yanked it open violently. He then set the mouth of the bottle to his own and let the liquor pour over his tongue and down his throat unimpeded until he was forced to pause to draw breath. He breathed, then hoisted the bottle again. And again. And again.

 

The whiskey ran out long before the searing pain of the stabbing had begun to fade. It still throbbed fiercely in every nerve, slightly dulled now that he was awake, but still there nonetheless.

 

Duncan clutched the empty bottle to his chest, rocking back and forth as he stared unseeing into space. Vivid dreams, even nightmares, were to be expected after taking the quickening of a powerful and ancient Immortal. He had taken two such Immortals, Caspian and Kronos, in a single night. And Kronos’ quickening had been taken under unique circumstances; Methos had taken Silas’ head at the same instant. That quickening was unlike any Duncan had ever experienced; for before Kronos had become part of him, he had felt the power of Kronos and Silas blend, touch him, and then separate again as Kronos’ power became his.

 

And then...and then he had felt Methos’ power touch him, too.

 

But there was no point in thinking about that. It wasn’t important. It couldn’t have anything to do with what was happening to him now. It couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense.

  
Duncan had never heard of two quickenings being taken at such close proximity. He had had no idea what to expect at the time, and had braced himself for the bizarre. But at first, apart from the usual dreams, there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary. Not really. Just a few strange dreams about Methos....

 

Well, wasn’t that to be expected after everything that had happened? After having discovered the ugly truth about the man he had considered his closest friend? Finding out that someone you trusted with your life was a butcher was enough to give _anyone_ nightmares. It was only natural. The dreams had begun to fade within a few days of Kronos’ death.

 

Until two weeks ago.

 

The nightmares had sprung to life with a sadistic, lurid vengeance. These dreams bore no resemblance to any post-quickening experience that Duncan was familiar with. He couldn’t really call them dreams. They were _real_. He was there. He felt these things happening to him.

 

And yet...they _weren’t_ happening to him. They were happening to Methos.

 

Why? Why was he being imprisoned in Methos’ skin night after night, reliving the old man’s ancient horrors? How had that bastard done this to him? He had no doubt that Methos knew exactly what was happening to him. Knowing Methos, he had fully expected Duncan’s forced detour down Death’s memory lane and had simply neglected to mention it—another nasty little surprise for the man who was supposedly his friend. He was probably gloating over a beer somewhere.

 

Consumed with sudden rage, Duncan hurled the empty whiskey bottle across the room and watched with perverse satisfaction as it shattered against the wall, sending razor-sharp shards and splinters of glass flying through the air to land on shelves, furniture, and floor.

 

His pleasure was short-lived. The signature of another Immortal cut through the miasma of nightmare and alcohol, sending Duncan crawling about on the floor on his hands and knees in a frantic search for his sword. For the first time in his life, he could not remember where it was. He groped under the bed and among the piles of soiled clothing and dirty dishes that littered the floor around the bed to no avail. The door had already begun to open when Duncan finally spotted the hilt of the katana sticking out from under a pile of books beside a toppled bookcase. He dove for the sword in a panic, sending an avalanche of dirty dishes and books clattering across the floor, and rolled to stand facing the intruder with the weapon firmly in his grasp.

 

It took him several seconds to realize who the intruder was, and several more to realize that he was standing on the remains of his whiskey bottle.

 

“Doesn’t that hurt?” asked Amanda sweetly.

 

Swearing loudly in Gaelic, Duncan hobbled over to sit on the bed. He examined the sole of each foot gingerly, carefully removing the spikes of glass. “What do ye want?”

 

Amanda pouted. “Anyone would think you weren’t glad to see me.”

 

The woman was impossible. Couldn’t she see that now wasn’t a good time? That the past two _weeks_ hadn’t been a good time? She hadn’t given him a moment’s peace lately.

 

“I’m not,” snarled Duncan, forcing himself through his whiskey-induced haze to concentrate on enunciating each word as distinctly as he could manage. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, Amanda! What’re you doing here?”

 

Amanda shrugged as she came down the steps, her eyes sweeping the filthy room as she took in every detail. “I just happened to be passing by and heard some shouting. I thought I’d pop in and see what the excitement was.”

 

“There’s no ex...excitement,” growled Duncan, pulling the last of the glass from his foot and annoyed all over again at the obvious lie.

 

“Oooh...,” purred Amanda, wrapping her arms about his neck as she slid down to sit next to him on the edge of the bed. “But there could be.” She leaned forward as if to kiss him, then pulled back, wrinkling her nose. “If you take a shower first.”

 

“Damn it, this is not the time!” Duncan pushed her away as gently as he could and stood up to pace the length of the room restlessly and unsteadily, desperately trying to remember where the rest of the Scotch was. He didn’t want Amanda. All he wanted was a drink.

 

“Fine,” said Amanda in her getting-down-to-business tone, which instantly coaxed the location of the Scotch bottle from Duncan’s significantly impaired memory. “What’s going on?”

 

Duncan yanked open the cabinet door and seized the bottle. “Nothing.”

 

“I heard you screaming for Methos,” continued Amanda determinedly. “Are you still having nightmares?”

 

“No,” snapped Duncan, some raw part of him stung by the mention of Methos’ name. He tried without success to open the bottle. Damn it, why couldn’t the woman let it alone?

 

“How much of that have you had tonight?” Amanda’s voice became more impatient.

 

“That’s none of your business!” Duncan’s frustration increased as the bottle continued to resist his attentions.

 

“Duncan, _talk_ to me! What is happening?”

 

Cursing in frustration, Duncan gave up trying to open the bottle by conventional means and simply smashed its neck against the cabinet. Broken glass flew freely as he scooped up the first drinking glass he found lying on the floor and poured the liquor into it. He tossed back the drink with the ease of much practice, and savored the warmth as it traveled down his throat. Amanda would be much easier to deal with after a few more of these.

 

Amanda rose from the bed in one fluid, purposeful motion and strode to Duncan’s side.

 

“Duncan, you can’t go on like this. These nightmares about Methos—”

 

“I’m not dreaming about Methos! Why the hell would I be dreaming about him?” Duncan heard his voice rise wildly, and some small part of him wondered why he was lying. He swung away from her, pouring himself another Scotch.

 

“I don’t know why! Have you told me everything that happened at Bordeaux?”

 

“There’s nothing more to tell,” gulped Duncan around a swallow. Why wouldn’t she stop talking about this? Was Methos all anyone could think about? He didn’t want to think about Bordeaux; that meant thinking about the Horsemen. Hadn’t they claimed enough of his thoughts already?

 

“It must have something to do with that double quickening. But why are the dreams getting worse again? They were fading—”

 

“Don’t know,” muttered Duncan, his nose back in his glass. “Don’t care.” He realized that it was true; he didn’t care. Did it matter why the dreams had come? They came. Nothing could stop them. There was no defense against dreams.

 

“Fine. _I_ care. We have to figure out what’s causing this. If you don’t know, then I’ll ask Methos. He’ll know what to do.”

 

Duncan swung toward her, consumed with sudden anger; his glass slipped from his fingers and landed on the carpet with a soft bounce and a muted splash. He grabbed her upper arm tightly with his left hand, his right still clutching the Scotch bottle.

 

“Ye’ll not ask him anything! It’s none o’ his business, nor yours!”

 

“Of course it’s our business! We both care about you, you idiot! Can’t you see—”

 

“Get out!” barked Duncan, incomprehensibly stung once more, and shoved her back roughly.

 

Amanda took a deep breath and tried again, softening her voice. “Duncan, let me help you. Just put down the—”

 

“I dinna want your help!” shouted Duncan furiously. “I want to be left alone! Get out! Just get out!”

 

Amanda folded her arms across her chest, an obstinate look settling over her face. “You are not throwing me out of here again, Duncan MacLeod. I am staying right here until you tell me what is go—”

 

Duncan bounded to the bed in two unsteady steps to snatch up his katana. He advanced on Amanda, one hand holding the weapon and the other holding the Scotch. He felt his entire body shaking with an unreasoning rage. “Ye’ll go with or without my blade through your heart! Your choice!”

 

Amanda stared at him for a moment, clearly shocked; then began to back up as he took another step toward her. “Without,” she said hastily, continuing to back away. “Without, okay? Just...settle down.” She backed up the steps and fled, slamming the door behind her.

 

Duncan stared after her for a moment in confusion, then glanced down at the weapon in dismay, suddenly realizing what he had done. God Almighty, what was happening to him? He dropped the blade, then allowed himself to follow it as he succumbed to the trembling in his limbs and fell to his knees, still clutching the bottle. His eyes fell upon the fallen drinking glass, and with wildly shaking hands snatched it up to pour himself another drink.

 

Now he had something else to forget.

 

***

 

 

_Please, Methos, stay here with me. We have so little time...._

Sebastian?

 

_We’ll have plenty of time, Sebastian. I’ll be fine. I will be back with Lucius by dawn tomorrow, and we will leave together. We’ll go to Constantinople, and you can teach me how to cheat at shatranj._

Idiot! He’s telling you that _he_ has so little time. Stay with him!

 

_Take care, child. Go with God._

Listen to him!

 

_Which one?_

Fool, _listen_ to him!

 

_Whichever God will bring you peace, child._

Don’t leave him!

 

_I’ll be back by dawn. Be ready to go._

You stupid bastard, he’ll be _dying _at dawn and he knows it; he’ll be gone before you can reach him!

_I will be ready at dawn. Farewell, my son._

Listen to him! Listen to him, he’s saying goodbye! Don’t leave him! He’ll die if you leave him!

 

_Is this the best defense Lutetia can offer? A dotard priest?_

The signature of an Immortal rolled over Methos like a wave as he awoke with a drowning gasp. His mind still seized by nightmare, he snatched up his sword and lunged toward the door.

 

***

 

 

Amanda slammed the payphone’s receiver back into its cradle with a force that made the abused instrument ring in protest. There was no answer at Joe’s apartment. But he must be there. Maurice had told her, when she had called the bar, that Joe, Richie, and ‘Adam’ had left for home hours ago. Obviously the little talk Joe had planned for this evening had had some effect; Methos had been dislodged from his table at Maurice’s several hours before closing, which was a good sign. Joe had probably taken Methos and Richie home to sleep it off.

 

Amanda snorted. Joe Dawson, Den Mother. They were probably all still at Joe’s, performing whatever weird male bonding rituals were appropriate on such occasions, and were refusing to answer the phone. Typical!

 

_Men!_ Amanda gritted her teeth as she signaled a cab. _Why do I bother?_

She answered her own question silently as she opened the cab door and slid inside. _You bother because of Duncan MacLeod._

She gave Joe’s address to the driver and settled back, unconsciously drumming her fingers on the armrest, trying to ignore the soft but persistent voice of her common sense.

 

_Oh, you bother because of Duncan MacLeod the self-righteous? Duncan MacLeod the arrogant?  Duncan MacLeod the obstinate? Duncan MacLeod the humorless? Duncan whack-’em-first-and- agonize-about-’em-later MacLeod?_

“It’s a phase,” snapped Amanda aloud.

 

“_Comment?_” The driver glanced back at her in confusion.

 

“_Rien,_” replied Amanda with a sigh.

 

This adolescent crisis of Duncan’s had been coming on for quite a while. She’d seen it before. Some Immortals clung fiercely and rigidly to the values they had been taught as children, refusing to admit that black and white made for great piano keys and zebras but precious little else. They refused to adapt, or even to accept that there were situations in which and people to whom their preconceived standards did not apply. They wouldn’t bend.

 

So they broke.

 

In many different ways, of course, but without exception, they broke.

 

Amanda tried not to think about how many Immortals, friends and enemies, she had seen go down that path. If there was one thing she had learned in eleven centuries, it was this: if you couldn’t adapt, you died...or you went mad. Amanda recalled the look on Duncan’s face as he had come at her with his sword and swallowed hard.

 

Duncan had faced an increasing number of challenges to his childhood values over the past few years, and each challenge seemed to make him cling to them all the more desperately, and apply them all the more rigidly. It had only been a matter of time before some major conflict arose to bring everything to the boiling point.

 

Enter Methos and the Assholes of the Apocalypse.

 

Amanda snorted impatiently. It _almost_ served Duncan right. Why did he insist on putting people on pedestals? It had been love at first sight...metaphorically speaking, of course. The man had been just plain _infatuated_ with the idea of Methos, World’s Oldest Living Immortal. Who better to fill Darius’ shoes? It had simply never occurred to the Eternal Boy Scout that no one could live five thousand years without occasionally scoring some points for the forces of darkness.

 

Amanda shook her head. She could have predicted his reaction. It was classic Duncan MacLeod in moral outrage mode. Of course, the circumstances of the revelation hadn’t helped. If only that cow Cassandra hadn’t been the one to tell him! Amanda scowled, picturing the scene: the wide eyes, the tears, the trembling lips, the incredibly bad hair. Duncan had never stood a chance. His relationship with Methos had shattered when Methos’ pedestal did, and Amanda was not sure that it could ever be rebuilt.

 

And now these dreams.

 

Amanda couldn’t figure them out. Duncan could deny it all he liked, but it was Methos he was dreaming about. It was Methos’ name he had been screaming all these weeks. All she knew was that the dreams had started after Duncan and Methos had taken Kronos and Silas, had started to fade, and then had returned stronger than ever—after Duncan had taken Byron. It didn’t make any sense. But if anyone had the answer, it was Methos. Maybe Joe had sobered him up enough to talk sense.

 

Amanda snapped back to awareness of her surroundings as the taxi came to a halt outside Joe’s apartment building. She paid the driver and got out of the car, noting as she did so the young man trying, with a pitiful lack of success, to remain unobtrusive as he hovered at the entrance of the alley to one side of the building.

 

A Watcher? Not a very good one, obviously, but then in her opinion Joe Dawson was the only Watcher worth his space. This guy bore no resemblance to Amanda’s Watcher, whom Amanda tormented on a daily basis. Richie’s, maybe? She’d have to ask Joe. She smiled at the young man and blew him a kiss as she entered the building, smirking as he blanched and disappeared behind the corner.

 

Watchers were _so_ easy.

 

When Amanda arrived at Joe’s door, the signatures of two Immortals touched her, and she smiled in perverse satisfaction. So they were here, and had refused to answer the phone. Joe knew perfectly well that she was going to the barge tonight; he had asked her to call after she saw Duncan. What the hell was going on?

 

Seriously annoyed, she raised her hand to knock. Before her knuckles could make contact with the door, however, it swung open suddenly to reveal thirty-six inches of fine steel.

 

At the other end was Methos, looking decidedly worse for wear. He was pale and unshaven, with deep circles under his eyes; his clothes and hair were rumpled as if he had just been roused from sleep. He held the blade at Amanda’s throat with exquisite precision, despite the bizarre fact that his eyes were closed. “You’re not touching him!” he snarled fiercely.

 

“It’s me, it’s Amanda,” squeaked Amanda in surprise, involuntarily leaning away from the tip of the blade. She had never seen that look on Methos’ face before.

 

“What?” Methos opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light in the hall.

 

“Amanda,” repeated Amanda nervously.

 

“Not who, what?” Methos molded the ferocity of his expression into irritation. It didn’t work. Whomever Methos had been expecting, Amanda knew it had not been her. “It’s...it’s four o’clock in the bloody morning! Nobody else would have the...the—”

 

“Balls,” came Richie’s sleepy voice from behind him. “Stones. Cojones.”

 

“It’s an emergency, Methos,” snapped Amanda, pushing the sword gingerly to one side.

 

Methos returned it to its original position angrily. “God, where have I heard that before?”

 

“Would you mind putting that down? I’ve already had one sword pointed at me tonight.” Amanda heard her voice shake slightly, and she cleared her throat.

 

Methos lowered the blade, anxiety briefly overwhelming the anger in his face. “MacLeod?”

 

Amanda nodded, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel, until now, how much Duncan’s behavior had shaken her.

 

“Get in here,” growled Methos, pulling her inside with a gentleness at odds with his annoyed expression, then closing the door behind her as he flipped on the lights. “Bloody hell, what a night. Are you all right?”

 

“Mac challenged you?” asked Richie sharply, sitting up on the floor where he had obviously been sleeping. He wasn’t looking too good himself.

 

“No,” sighed Amanda, sinking into Joe’s favorite chair wearily. “He just threatened to put his sword through my heart if I wouldn’t leave. Where’s Joe?”

 

“Asleep,” said Methos, jerking his head in the direction of the bedroom. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”

 

“He’ll want to hear this, Methos. Duncan—”

 

“Joe’s heard enough for one night,” returned Methos evenly. “And so have I. Coffee?”

 

“Methos, he’s drunk out of his mind, and he won’t stop drinking.”

 

Unease passed quickly over Methos’ face, only to be replaced with his best nonchalant expression. He shrugged. “And the problem with this is...?”

 

“Shit. Something’s wrong. He’d never threaten Amanda no matter how drunk he was,” said Richie in a strained voice. “I’ve seen him drunk before—after Tessa, after Darius, but he never—”

 

“No,” interrupted Amanda, her eyes on Methos. “The drinking’s not the problem. The problem is _why_ he’s drinking.”

 

Methos flopped to the couch in one graceful motion, expression noncommittal and tone acerbic. “Let me guess. Yet another moral dilemma has presented itself to our gallant knight errant. Some new internal debate rages on the natures of good, evil, and Immortality. Some other poor Immortal sod faces judgment in the name of truth, justice, and the MacLeod way. Spare me, Amanda, please.”

 

“Methos,” said Richie in an edged tone, “Give it a rest.”

 

“Oh, I have,” said Methos unpleasantly. “The matter is of no concern to me whatsoever. Duncan MacLeod is free to execute whomever he pleases.”

 

“Are you finished?” demanded Amanda, at the end of her patience. Sometimes Methos and Duncan MacLeod were more alike than any two men had a right to be. A matching pair of pigheaded brats. Amanda briefly considered taking their heads and having them bronzed for use as bookends.

 

“I’m through,” said Methos bitterly, then shut his eyes as if to deny her existence.

 

“Why is Mac drinking?” asked Richie, ignoring him.

 

“Nightmares,” replied Amanda, carefully watching Methos’ face. “So bad he wakes up screaming, more than once a night.”

 

Methos’ face became noticeably paler.

 

_He does know something_.

 

Richie scowled. “What kind of nightmares? Did he tell you what they were about?”

 

“He won’t tell me anything,” said Amanda determinedly. “All I know is he wakes up screaming Methos’ name.”

 

Richie’s eyes widened slightly, and he turned toward Methos. Amanda set her gaze on the older man too, willing him to speak. He had to know what was going on. He had to know how to help Duncan. But after everything that that pubescent pain in the ass had put him through lately, would Methos still be willing to help him? Not that it mattered; Amanda had decided that Methos was going to help Duncan whether he liked it or not. But it would make things a lot easier if he came along quietly.

 

There were a few moments of silence; Amanda watched Methos’ chest rise and fall for several seconds.

 

“Damn him.” Methos’ voice was barely audible.

 

“You know what’s wrong,” said Richie softly, before Amanda could speak. It wasn’t a question.

 

Methos swung his long legs over the edge of the sofa and sat up. “Of course I do!” he snapped. “I am Methos. I know all. I see all. I—”

 

“Say nothing of any use!” exploded Amanda in exasperation. Methos was definitely pulling ahead of Duncan in the ‘world’s most excruciatingly annoying Immortal’ contest, although it was still anyone’s race. God, they were both impossible! The bookend solution was looking better and better.

 

“Just spit it out,” advised Richie in a warning tone.

 

“It’s the double quickening, isn’t it?” came a soft voice from behind them, and the three Immortals started and turned toward it.

 

Joe sat in his wheelchair at the entrance to the hall that led to the bedroom. Amanda couldn’t help the surprise that sprang inadvertently to her face; in all the years she’d known Joe, she’d never seen him in his wheelchair before. And he looked like hell, too. What on earth had happened to these three tonight? This was more than the aftereffects of a bender and a heart-to-heart.

 

“What are you doing up?” growled Methos in a tone so laced with affection that Amanda couldn’t call it a proper growl. “You were supposed to be sleeping.”

 

“You’re kidding, right? You expect me to sleep with this party going on next door?” Joe maneuvered his chair into the room and parked it beside Amanda. “He’s worse?”

 

Amanda nodded wordlessly, still taking in the fear and exhaustion in Joe’s face.

 

“He threatened to put his sword through her,” said Richie wearily, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s lost it, Joe.”

 

“Shit. Shit!” Joe looked to Methos. “Let me guess. You two crossed wires during that quickening, right?”

 

Methos let loose with a bark of startled laughter. “You’re an analog man in a digital world, Joe. Very quaintly put.”

 

Amanda watched carefully as Joe looked at Methos for a moment, a silent plea in those expressive blue eyes...and then smiled as Methos sighed resignedly and capitulated. So that’s how it was. She couldn’t blame Methos; she was a sucker for that look herself. But that certainly shot his Methos the Impervious routine to hell, and she had no intention of allowing him to forget it.

 

“Yes,” said Methos in a subdued tone.

 

Richie glanced at Joe uncertainly. “The fight with—at Bordeaux?”

 

Methos gave him an annoyed look. “Nice save. Just how long is this going to go on?”

 

“‘This’ meaning what, exactly?” asked Joe blandly.

 

“‘This’ meaning Smokin’ Joe Dawson’s Nannies to Go,” snapped Methos.

 

Joe grinned broadly. “A nanny’s gotta do what a nanny’s—”

 

“You were saying?” Amanda turned to Methos in exasperation.

 

Methos scowled. “I believe I was saying that every one of you is a certified pain in the arse, and that if I had any brains at all I’d be on a plane for Tahiti by now.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Before that bit,” returned Joe, laying a hand on Amanda’s arm as she bristled.

 

Methos rose from the couch and moved to stare out at the faint pre-dawn light. Amanda, pushed past the limits of her patience, tried to follow him, but Joe restrained her with a shake of his head. Biting her lip, she held herself still. Something was definitely going on here. Something that had increased Joe’s anxiety level tenfold in the past twenty-four hours. He was looking at Methos as if the old guy were fine crystal teetering on the edge of a display shelf. Why?

 

“What do you know about multiple quickenings, Joe?”

 

“Not much,” said Joe softly. “They’re rare.”

 

Another pause. “You were right,” Methos said finally. “Our...wires crossed.” He laughed shortly. “The results are unpredictable. During the quickening, there’s usually an awareness of each other. Afterward, the survivors usually experience an exchange of memories, and dreams of those memories, as with any quickening.”

 

“But that’s not what’s happening!” blurted Amanda, unable to restrain herself any longer. “These dreams aren’t the kind you get after a quickening! They’re killing him!”

 

“He has no one to blame but himself,” snarled Methos, turning toward her. “If he hadn’t taken another head so soon—”

 

“Damn,” said Joe softly. “Is that it?”

 

“There wasn’t enough time for him to adjust,” said Methos raggedly. “Kronos would have been difficult enough for any Immortal to...accommodate. The memories he picked up from me must have made that even more difficult. And then, just as he was beginning to come to terms with all that—”

 

“He took Byron,” finished Joe when Methos hesitated, “and stirred everything up again. That’s where these nightmares are coming from?”

 

“I can’t really call them nightmares,” said Methos, his voice becoming more strained. “It’s more like...like being trapped in someone else’s memory.”

 

“This happened to _you_, didn’t it?” asked Richie softly.

 

Methos nodded wordlessly, his eyes far away.

 

“What about you?” asked Amanda gently, worried by the wounded look in Methos’ eyes. “Haven’t you had dreams?”

 

Methos laughed mirthlessly. “Dreams? Yes. Of course. Oh,” he laughed again. “You mean about MacLeod. A drop in the bucket. The man’s an amateur when it comes to nightmares. I imagine he’s learned that much.”

 

Methos’ bitter tone grated on Amanda’s ears. “Well, what are you going to do about it?” she demanded.

 

“Amanda,” said Joe quietly. “I don’t think there’s anything he _can_ do.”

 

“We can’t leave him like that,” protested Richie. He turned to Methos. “How did _you_ get rid of the nightmares?”

 

Methos met his gaze with far-away hazel eyes. “I killed the man I shared the quickening with,” he said softly.

 

Richie’s mouth fell open. Silence reigned for a few moments, and Amanda groped for a coherent response. Did that mean the only way Duncan could be free of these dreams was for him to....

 

“And it worked?” Joe’s voice was strained and his face white.

 

“Yes.” Methos seemed to become suddenly aware of Joe’s reaction; he quickly squatted beside his friend’s chair with a reassuring grin. “Relax, Joe.”

 

“This is not an option.”

 

“Of course not,” said Methos, in a voice that Amanda had never heard before. “Come on, Joe. What are you thinking? That after five thousand years, I’m going to offer Kilt-boy my head?”

 

“Hey,” said Richie indignantly.

 

“You did once before,” Joe pointed out gruffly.

 

Methos pulled a wry face. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you? Temporary insanity. Full moon, and Mercury in retrograde. Could never happen again.”

 

Joe laid a hand on Methos’ shoulder with a rusty laugh. “Spare me the bullshit and tell me what you’re thinking. Can we do anything to help him? Apart from what we have decided is _not_ an option?”

 

“I think so. I’ve learned a thing or two since my experience.”

 

Amanda drew a relieved breath.

 

“And nobody gets hurt?” persisted Joe, tightening his grip on Methos’ shoulder to give his much older friend a gentle shake.

 

“Well, not me, anyway,” said Methos with a grin.

 

Richie groaned. “The man is a menace, Joe.” He stretched, wincing. “I’d better go with him.”

 

“No,” said Methos, rising fluidly despite the fatigue in his face. “Stay here, Rich. Amanda and I can handle the drunk.”

 

Amanda rose eagerly. About time.

 

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe we should all go.”

 

Methos scooped his coat off the lamp. “Go back to bed, Dad,” he said in his most off-hand manner. “We’ll sober up Drunken Duncan and have him back to his lovably homicidal self before you can say decapitation.”

 

“Will you please knock that shit off?” snapped Richie irritably. “You know he’s not like that.”

 

“I do?” Methos shrugged into his coat.

 

“It’s a phase,” said Richie and Amanda in unison.

 

“Fine,” sighed Joe resignedly. “Take Richie with you. Mac may give you some trouble.”

 

“We’ll have to lose Richie’s Watcher,” said Amanda impatiently. “That will take time. I really think we ought to get back to the barge as quickly as—”

 

“_Richie’s_ Watcher?” asked Joe sharply. “Are you sure?”

 

“Cute little blond?” asked Richie with a grin.

 

“Well, he was blond, but unless your tastes have changed he wasn’t your type,” retorted Amanda.

 

“A guy?” Richie turned to Joe in disgust. “What did you do with Michelle? I liked her.”

 

“I didn’t hear that,” growled Joe. “And I didn’t do anything with her. Whoever’s down there isn’t Richie’s Watcher.”

 

“Black jacket? Brown sweater? Has that road-kill in the headlights look?” Methos fired the questions at Amanda, who nodded in confusion.

 

“Étienne,” said Joe weary comprehension. “I should have known he wouldn’t give up that easily. He’s probably just waiting for you two to leave to try again.”

 

“Rich, stay here. Don’t let anyone in,” said Methos in a commanding tone that made Richie nod immediate acquiescence and made Amanda do a double take. “Come on, Amanda.”

 

“Hey. Hey!” called Joe in a tired voice as Methos opened the door and stepped into the hall. “You be careful out there, okay?”

 

Amanda saw a stricken expression cross Methos’ face as he froze in his tracks; what little color he had drained away. His whole body seemed to shrink. For one brief moment, the haunted look in his eyes made him look his age.

 

_Now what?_

Methos turned and came back inside, staring at Joe. “Maybe...maybe I should stay,” he faltered, his commanding air completely vanished as he took a hesitant step in his friend’s direction. Amanda came back to the door to stare at him in astonishment. Now he sounded younger than Richie. What was with him?

 

Joe’s smile deepened to a reassuring grin. “What’s the matter? You think Rich and I can’t handle Étienne?”

 

Richie snorted derisively, his opinion of the young man in question abundantly clear.

 

“I don’t give a damn about Étienne,” said Methos in a low voice.

 

Joe jerked a thumb toward the door. “Then go baby sit Mac for a while.”

 

“Joe....”

 

“Istanbul’s quite a hike.”

 

_Istanbul?_

 

“We don’t know where he is, Joe.”

 

“There’s no particular reason for him to come to Paris, is there?” asked Joe, his eyes searching Methos’ face.

 

“No,” said Methos, after a pause. Amanda could see that he was thinking again; the more he thought, the more he regained his composure. She would have paid real money to know what it was that freaked him out. “But I think I should stay until you can alert the Watchers.”

 

Joe considered for a long moment punctuated by the sound of Amanda’s tapping foot, then shook his head. “I have to have something solid before I call the regional coordinators. I’ll call Shapiro in Istanbul and find out what he knows and how he knows it. That’d be the best place to start.”

 

“Excuse me,” said Amanda in annoyance. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was being ignored. Not knowing what was going on was a pain in the ass too, but being ignored was definitely worse.

 

“Why start with Shapiro?” asked Methos sharply.

 

“Well, what am I supposed to say to the RC’s? ‘Hey, guys, Marcus Gaius aka Stephanos dropped by to tell me that Lucius Germanicus isn’t dead after all, so let’s all drop what we’re doing and start looking for the bogeyman..’”

 

“Point taken,” said Methos wryly.

 

“Hello,” said Amanda loudly.

 

“Go,” said Joe. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Methos hesitated.

 

Joe sighed and met Methos’ eyes squarely with a sober expression. “He’s not here, not yet. We’ve got some time. If he sticks to his old pattern, we have a lot of time. If not....”

 

Methos nodded, drawing a deep breath. He seemed to be steadying himself. “Yes, we’ve got some time,” he said softly.

 

“Who’s not here?” demanded Amanda from the door. There was definitely something going on, something these _men_ weren’t bothering to tell her about. God, they were insufferable! Whatever it was, it must be bad to freak out both Joe and Methos.

 

“Relax, old timer,” said Richie, with an obviously exaggerated display of confidence. “If Lucius shows up, Joe and I’ll take care of him.”

 

Methos gave him a sharp look, then turned away as he caught on, obviously trying not to smile. “I can just imagine,” he said sarcastically.

 

“Joe, am I right?” Richie cocked an eyebrow at Joe.

 

“Oh, absolutely,” agreed Joe, the corners of his mouth twitching suspiciously. “I’ll just whack him over the head with my cane and run the chair over him a few times while you chop his head off. No problem. We’ll go halves on the new carpet.”

 

“There you go,” said Richie cheerfully.

 

“Why do I bother?” growled Methos.

 

“Because you _love_ us,” said Richie with sickening earnestness.

 

Joe cackled appreciatively.

 

“I’m out of here,” said Methos in a deadly tone. “No one in or out. Stay put. Got it?”

 

“Go on,” said Joe, still smiling. “And give MacLeod a good swift kick in the pants for me, okay?”

 

Methos grinned broadly and turned toward the door. “My pleasure. I’ll call you when we get to the barge.”

 

“Oh, are we through, now?” inquired Amanda waspishly. “Have we finished playing ignore-the-girl now?”

 

“Are you coming?” asked Methos casually as he passed her.

 

Amanda glared at Richie, but he was staring rather pointedly at the ceiling. The kid was in on it too. Well, she’d have it out of Methos. He was a tough nut, but all it took was the right nutcracker.

            “Okay,” said Amanda, catching up with Methos half-way to the lift, “What the _hell_ was all that about?”

 

***

 

 

“That’s it? One legend, one book and one dead Watcher and you guys are ready to call in the Marines?”

 

Methos glanced away from the cab window and shrugged. “What can I say? I live to cower.”

 

Amanda glared at him with a reproach that bothered Methos not in the slightest. “You haven’t told me everything, have you?”

 

Methos managed his usual smirk. “Safe bet.”

 

In point of fact, he had given her only the barest sketch of the situation. There was no reason for her to know more. And he knew Amanda. Any more information would only produce more questions—questions he did not yet feel prepared to answer.

 

“Fine,” snapped Amanda. “I’ll ask Joe.”

 

“Joe doesn’t know any more than I’ve told you.” Methos struggled to control his annoyance level. _She’s trying to provoke you into talking, old man. Don’t you recognize one of your own tactics?_

 

“Joe knows more than you’ve told him,” retorted Amanda.

 

Methos stared at her, surprised that she would come to that conclusion with so few facts. “What makes you think so?”

 

“I saw the way he looked at you tonight. He’s _scared_, Methos.”

 

“Having a friend turn up in little pieces has been known to do that.”

 

“No.” Amanda laid a hand on Methos’ arm. “He’s scared for _you_.”

 

Methos turned to stare at the empty, dawn-lit streets of Paris rolling by the cab window. If Joe had any sense at all, he wouldn’t be wasting his time being scared for _him_. He’d devote it to being scared for himself.

 

“Did you hear me?”

 

“Look, Amanda, there’s nothing that we can do about Lucius right now. Let’s concentrate on MacLeod, all right? Or don’t you think that will be enough of a challenge?”

 

Amanda pouted and subsided, evidently accepting the fact that she would get nothing further from Methos on the subject of Lucius. Methos returned his gaze to the window, trying to concentrate on MacLeod. He felt the appropriate surge of annoyance as he did so. MacLeod would pick now, of all times, to go off the deep end. Obviously something had to be done about him, and quickly. Joe was going to need his help. God, Joe was going to need all the help he could get. And if Lucius ever managed to figure out that Marcus Gaius was in Paris, then _Methos_ was going to need his help.

 

How the hell had Lucius escaped? And where was he? Methos couldn’t answer those questions, but he knew precisely what the man was doing. He was going through the records he had taken from Zwirner, planning his next...execution. Methos took a deep breath, thanking whatever gods existed that he had hacked into the new Watcher database and removed Adam Pierson’s records. He might be mentioned elsewhere, but Lucius would find no face for that name, and no current location. If Lucius knew that he was here....

 

Methos noticed that his hand was gripping the edge of the seat tightly, and slowly forced the muscles to relax. Lucius didn’t know. Yes, they had a little time. Perhaps they could devise a plan to trap Lucius before anyone else got killed, but he doubted it. Methos was enough of a strategist to appreciate the fact that any plan formulated with this many unknowns was doomed to failure. All it ever took to bring down such a plan was one coincidence.

 

God. How could he have been this complacent? It had been inevitable that Lucius would escape one day. Hadn’t he said so himself? How had he allowed himself to forget that? Methos shook his head. He hadn’t _allowed_ himself to forget Lucius, any more than he had _allowed_ himself to forget Kronos. He had deliberately _willed_ himself to forget. How many dangling swords could a man live with if he permitted himself to be conscious of all of them day after day?

 

The taxi pulled up beside MacLeod’s barge, and Amanda got out quickly and walked to the gangplank. She nodded at Methos as he paid the driver. “He’s still here.”

 

“Oh, joy.”

 

The cab drove off, and Methos stared at the barge, shaking his head. He must be out of his mind. What was he doing here? He should be with Joe now— barring the option of running for his life, of course. And yet here he was, playing I’ll-save-you- Duncan-dear yet again for an inebriated Scottish clown with decidedly homicidal tendencies.

 

Why was he here? Were Joe’s fears justified? Did he want MacLeod to kill him? Methos had, in the grief that consumed him after Byron’s death, resigned himself to that inevitability; but although the condemned had mounted the gallows, the executioner had never arrived. And now that he was regaining his perspective, he knew that he had told Joe the truth: he wanted to live.

 

Methos tried to pinpoint the moment at which he had decided to help MacLeod, and couldn’t. It was almost as if there had been no decision to be made, no point at which he could have turned his back on the man. He grimaced in disgust at the irritating irony of the situation. If he were really the man MacLeod believed him to be, he would have been long gone, leaving the boy scout to pickle in his own juice. But no, here he was again with helping hand extended.

 

He could almost hear Kronos howling with laughter. _You’ve gone soft!_

Methos took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind, and started up the plank.

 

Amanda stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Methos, we won’t lose him, will we?” Her voice was strained.

 

So she _had_ been concentrating on MacLeod. “Have a little faith,” said Methos with a small smile.

 

“You’re not sure,” said Amanda, wrapping her arms around herself as if suddenly chilled. She gave him a sharp look. “Do you really know how to help him, or was that just for Joe’s benefit?”

 

Methos briefly considered the possibility that he was losing his touch. “I have a few ideas,” he said lightly.

 

Amanda leaned toward him fiercely. “You’re not going to do something stupid, are you? If you offer him your head in the state he’s in, he’s likely to take it.”

 

Methos snorted as he started up the gangplank. “Waste my quickening on Sulky MacPout of the Clan MacPetulance? You’ve got to be kidding.”

 

“I wouldn’t put anything past you,” groused Amanda. “Would you mind telling me what the plan is, or are you making this up as you go along?”

 

Methos laughed shortly as he opened the unlocked door to the hold. “Just let me handle him, all right? Stay back unless I—”

 

“Yell for help?” interjected Amanda tartly.

 

“Precisely.”

 

Methos heard a barely audible but impressive string of Middle English obscenities from behind him and grinned involuntarily, but his amusement didn’t last long. He felt that grin fade from his face as he caught his first glimpse of the hold, and he stood on the first step inside the door, aghast.

 

The place had been torn apart; not a piece of furniture remained in place. Everything that had once occupied cabinets or shelves now lay strewn over the floor, so that the floor itself was no longer visible. The stench of rotting food, unwashed clothes, and an unwashed person was overpowering. Duncan was nowhere to be seen, but he was most definitely there. His Immortal signature was as strong as his smell.

 

Methos glanced back at Amanda; her mouth was open and her eyes wide. “It wasn’t like this when you left?” he asked in an undertone.

 

Amanda shook her head. “It wasn’t this bad,” she whispered. “He must have gone postal after I left.” She peered into the dimly lit room; the lamps were among the casualties that littered the floor. “Can you see him?”

 

Methos shook his head, his eyes sweeping the room. In the silence that followed Amanda’s question, he finally heard the muffled sound of slow, labored breathing from the vicinity of the overturned bed. He pointed in the direction of the sound, then gestured for Amanda to remain where she was. Amanda nodded with an anxious expression.

 

Methos made his way gingerly through the debris on the floor, trying to spot the source of the rasping sound. He reached the bed, looked around in confusion, then finally realized that the breathing was coming from under the capsized mattress. Swearing under his breath, Methos pulled it aside.

 

Duncan lay curled in a fetal position on the floor underneath, an empty bottle clutched in one hand. He was filthy, pale, unshaven and reeked of old sweat and alcohol. The floor around him was littered with liquor bottles and piles of old photographs, some of them mangled as if they had been tightly clutched.

 

Methos knelt beside the unconscious man in shock, instinctively reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. Whatever he had expected to find, this was not it. He had thought that seeing MacLeod suffer the consequences of killing Byron would give him some measure of satisfaction, but it only hurt him. It hurt him badly to see this man in this state.

 

_Damn him._

Methos’ gaze scanned the photographs quickly. He recognized the faces immediately: Tessa, Richie, Joe, Amanda, Hugh Fitzcairn...and Darius. Methos smiled bitterly, some small part of him stung by the glaring absence of his image from this group of Duncan’s family portraits. Cursing himself for the worst kind of fool, Methos impatiently scooped the photos into a pile and placed them to one side, only to find a small pile of broken glass and a twisted picture frame beneath them. It was the only framed photo among the debris. Curious, Methos picked it up gingerly and carefully removed the photo from the frame. Turning it over, he froze, recognizing a snapshot Joe had taken at the bar in Seacouver on the same night he had met Alexa. Duncan’s arm was draped over Methos’ shoulders as they grinned with what now seemed absurd happiness into the eyes of a much sadder man.

 

“Methos!” hissed Amanda from the other end of the room. “Did you find him?”

 

“Yes, he’s here,” said Methos unsteadily. He shoved the picture into the breast pocket of his coat.

 

“Is he—”

 

“He’s out cold,” said Methos, regaining his control. He rolled Duncan carefully away from the broken glass and cradled the shaggy head in his lap.

 

Amanda picked her way through the obstacle course with her usual grace and stooped beside him. “I guess we should get him into bed.”

 

“No,” said Methos determinedly. “First we get rid of whatever liquor is left in the place.”

 

“Why? The booze isn’t the problem.”

 

“It’s not helping,” said Methos, grimacing as he brushed the oily hair away from Duncan’s face. “Trust me, Amanda, the alcohol only makes the dreams more vivid. I don’t know why, but as usual, Mac’s found a way to make a bad situation worse. It’s a vicious cycle; he has a nightmare he wants to forget, he gets drunk, and the next nightmare is worse—”

 

“So he drinks more, ad infinitum,” finished Amanda. “Did that happen to you, too?”

 

“Everything happens to me,” returned Methos irritably. “Hand me that pillow.”

 

Methos shoved the pillow under MacLeod’s head, then spent the next three hours working with Amanda to restore some semblance of order to the barge. There wasn’t much alcohol left on board, but they dumped all they could find. They threw out the rotten food and tossed the soiled clothing and bed linens into a pile by the door, where they also concealed Duncan’s sword. They weren’t able to find the phone anywhere, and finally agreed that the Scot had probably pitched it overboard. By the time they had managed to put the bed back together, Duncan had begun to stir. He groaned softly.

 

Methos sighed, running a hand through his hair wearily. “Now the fun really starts.” He glanced at Amanda, who was regarding Duncan with justifiable apprehension. Now if he could just persuade her to leave.... “It might be better if you didn’t stay. He’s not going to be pleased that you brought me here.”

 

“What are you going to do?” asked Amanda in a low tone.

 

Methos considered the question for a moment, then shrugged and took off his coat, flinging it across a chair. He then seated himself cross-legged beside Duncan on the floor. “Whatever comes to mind.”

 

“Whatever comes to _mind_?” hissed Amanda in an exasperated tone. “Do you mean to tell me that in the past three hours you haven’t come up with a plan?”

 

“I’ve never been good with plans,” said Methos with admirable sincerity, watching Duncan’s face carefully as he groaned and stirred again.

 

Amanda glanced nervously at Duncan, then glared at Methos, obviously unimpressed with the magnitude of the lie. “And I’m supposed to believe you don’t have any idea of what to do?”

 

Methos shrugged, deriving a great deal of perverse satisfaction from her reactions. “I prefer to improvise.”

 

“Methos, you said you could help him!”

 

“I said I had a few ideas,” said Methos impatiently. “Look, what did you expect? The damage has already been done. All I can do now is get him to stop drinking so that the dreams will be endurable. But they’re not going to go away for a long time—weeks, if he’s lucky, months, if he’s not. Even then he’ll still have them occasionally, for the rest of his life. He’s going to have to learn to live with them. I can help him learn how to deal with them, if he’ll let me. But that’s the best I can do.”

 

“But I thought—”

 

“What? That I’d come over here and wave my magic Oldest Living Immortal wand and Sleeping Beauty here would just wake up with a song in his heart?”

 

“Sleeping Beauty was awakened with a kiss,” said Amanda archly, with a wicked smile.

 

Methos snorted, unexpectedly unnerved by the image. “Don’t go there, Amanda.”

 

Duncan muttered something restlessly in what sounded like Persian to Methos’ ears. Shit. Another dream.

 

Amanda edged closer. “Is he—”

 

“Yes,” said Methos, wondering, as he watched the Duncan’s restless movement and fearful expression, which of a thousand nightmarish experiences he was reliving.

 

“Wake him,” urged Amanda fearfully.

 

“Too late. He’s likely to be more violent than we could handle if we wake him now,” said Methos grimly, kicking himself inwardly; he should have recognized the signs of an oncoming dream. “We’ll have to let it run its course.”

 

Duncan gasped and muttered Lucius’ name. Methos flinched involuntarily at the sound.

 

“Why are they all nightmares?” demanded Amanda in obvious distress. “You said these things come from memories. Don’t you have any good memories?”

 

“Define good,” said Methos harshly, stung. “There was a time when I thought burning a village to the ground was good.”

 

“Stop bragging,” retorted Amanda. “You know what I mean. After five thousand years, you must have _some_ pleasant memories.”

 

Methos looked at her bleakly. “A few.” God, they had no idea.

 

“Then why weren’t any of _them_ exchanged? Why doesn’t Duncan dream about those?”

 

Methos sighed, not feeling quite equal to explaining just how few ‘a few’ really was. “It’s the power of the memory that’s working here. Whether the memory is pleasant or not is irrelevant.”

 

“It’s not irrelevant to him,” snapped Amanda, as Duncan cried out, obviously in pain. “And I don’t think it would be irrelevant to you either, if you were in his shoes.”

 

Duncan’s scream cut off any desire Methos had had to point out that he had already been in these particular shoes; he caught the younger man’s flailing arms and held them tightly.

 

“Go on, Amanda. He’ll be waking up in a minute. Take the katana with you and go.”

 

“Are you sure?” Amanda hesitated. “Will you be all—”

 

“_Lucius!_”

 

“Amanda, just go!” gasped Methos, struggling to hold Duncan’s fists away from his face. “Check on Joe and tell him everything’s under control. Come back this afternoon with some food and a phone. And watch your back!”

 

Methos felt her hand on his shoulder briefly. “Thanks, Methos.”

 

Duncan shrieked and managed to get one hand free long enough to sock Methos on the jaw. Swearing, Methos recaptured the wrist. “Don’t mention it,” he snapped. “Go!”

 

He heard the sound of her retreating footsteps and the door shutting behind her as Duncan lurched into a sitting position, nearly knocking Methos over.

 

_“Methos!” _Duncan stared with wild terror into Methos’ face, obviously not seeing him; then his wide eyes narrowed in confusion.

 

“Present,” said Methos mildly, still holding the younger man’s wrists firmly. “Good morning.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Yes, Paul, I know what time it is,” lied Joe, glancing confusedly at Richie. He mouthed ‘time,’ and Richie shoved his watch in front of Joe’s face. Five in the morning; it was seven o’clock in Istanbul. Oh, well. Early to bed and early to rise. “This is important. I’m trying to reach Jack. There’s no answer at his house or in the office. Any idea where he is?”

 

“I don’t know and I don’t bloody care,” snapped the man in an aggravated tone accentuated by a British public school accent. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to work with that bloody maniac? He’s not stable, Dawson. And Zwirner’s death—you heard about Zwirner?”

 

“Yeah, I heard.”

 

“Zwirner’s death has only made him worse. Do you know he actually thinks that _Lucius_ is the killer? _Lucius_, for God’s sake!”

 

“I heard that Gabriel’s missing chronicle was found with the body.” Joe hoped that Paul would be either sleepy enough or aggravated enough not to ask how he had heard. He was.

 

“Yes, it was. It’s on its way to European Headquarters right now for inspection, but I’ve no doubt it’s genuine. That’s scarcely proof that Lucius is back from the dead! More than likely some Immortal who knows about us is trying to put the fear of God into us—and he’s succeeded in Istanbul, I can assure you. We don’t go anywhere alone.”

 

“Good idea. So you have no idea where I could find Jack? There’s no other place where he might be?”

 

“You might try calling Carol, but I doubt that she’d know. I’ll give you her number.”

 

Joe sat up in his chair. “Wait a minute. Carol and Jack aren’t together?”

 

“Where the hell have you been, Dawson? Carol moved back to France six months ago and took the girls with her. Jack was impossible to live with. He’s been obsessed with this Lucius business, and Carol just couldn’t take it anymore. And that was before poor Johann turned up dead. Finding that mess on the doorstep just sent him over the edge.”

 

Joe swore silently. “So you don’t think that Carol would know where he is?”

 

“I’d be very much surprised if she’d heard from him at all. It took him two weeks before he even noticed that his house was empty. He had to ask me where they’d gone.”

 

Joe sighed deeply. “Well, give me her number anyway. I’m running out of options.”

 

“Hold on.” The receiver was put down with a rattle.

 

“What’s going on?” whispered Richie impatiently.

 

Joe covered the mouthpiece. “He doesn’t know where Shapiro is. He’s going to give me his wife’s num—”

 

The receiver was picked up again. “Found it,” said Paul. “She’s back at their house in Paris. 7289304. Do you have that?”

 

“Got it. Thanks, Paul.” Joe hung up the phone and stared at the instrument thoughtfully.

 

It was true that Shapiro had never been the same after his son was killed, but Joe had never stopped to consider the idea that he might be ‘unstable.’ His actions after his son’s death had certainly been extreme, even unbalanced, but any father losing a son under those circumstances might go off the deep end. Joe had thought that the move away from Paris and all its bad memories would have helped Shapiro deal with his grief and regain his perspective. It was possible he had been wrong.

 

Great. Just great. An ‘unstable’ Jack Shapiro was just what the doctor ordered.

 

“Well?” demanded Richie.

 

“Nobody in Istanbul knows where he is. Evidently his wife and kids left him six months ago and came back to Paris. Paul says he’s been ‘unstable’.”

 

“Now there’s a flash from the newsroom,” growled Richie.

 

“I don’t know,” said Joe slowly. “Jack Shapiro was as stable as they come until his son was killed. I just don’t think—”

 

“Come on, Joe. The guy tried to whack you for being Mac’s friend. You’ve got three choices here: one, unstable; two, vindictive prick; three, both. Choose.”

 

“Go away,” said Joe crankily. Damn, he hated it when this kid was right.

 

“Are you going to call his wife?”

 

“Not at five in the morning, I’m not. We’ll have to wait a couple hours.”

 

Richie sighed. “More coffee?”

 

“More coffee.”

 

***

 

Duncan froze for a moment, staring into Methos’ face. Then he pulled his wrists out of Methos’ grasp and fell back against the foot of the bed. His eyes darted about the room briefly; then he looked at the floor around him.

 

“Where’s m’boddle?” he slurred.

 

“Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that.” Methos leaned forward politely.

 

“My bottle!” Duncan glared at him angrily.

 

“Oh, your bottle! That’s gone,” said Methos pleasantly. “I threw it away.”

 

“You what!” Duncan tried to stand, but slipped onto his rear again, unable to rise.

 

“I threw it away,” repeated Methos very distinctly.

 

“You bastard,” snarled Duncan. “I’ll have another then.” He leaned on the bed to pull himself to his feet, where he swayed precariously.

 

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Methos in the same pleasant tone. “I threw them all away, you see. How about some coffee?”

 

Duncan sneered and staggered in the direction of a recently uprighted cabinet. “Don’t believe you. It’s right here, and I’m goin’ to find it.”

 

“Yeah, well, whatever blows your kilt up,” said Methos airily, leaning back against the bed.

 

Duncan rifled the cabinet with no success, then began going through the others with increasing agitation.

 

Methos watched every move, struggling to keep the sardonic smile on his face. “Any luck?”

 

“Where is it?” shouted the Scot, whirling to face Methos. “Where’d you put it?”

 

“I put it down the sink,” said Methos evenly, bracing himself as Duncan’s muscles tensed for action. “Are you ready for coffee?”

 

Duncan lunged across the room and tripped, falling to his hands and knees. Methos’ eyes closed involuntarily at the sight, then snapped open as the man staggered to his feet and flung himself forward, grabbing the front of Methos’ shirt.

 

“Where is it?”

 

“It’s down the drain,” said Methos with firm, quiet emphasis.

 

Duncan stared at him stupidly for a few seconds. “Why?”

 

“Because it’s only making the dreams worse,” said Methos in the same quiet tone. “It has to stop, Mac.”

 

Duncan leaned closer, and Methos held his breath against the smell of body odor and whiskey. “The drink is all that makes it stop. Get me some!”

 

“No,” said Methos simply.

 

“Bastard!” hissed Duncan. “What are you doin’ here? Haven’t you done enough?”

 

“Believe me, MacLeod, there are places I’d rather be,” snapped Methos, leaning away from the violence and the stench.

 

“Then go!”

 

“No.”

 

Cursing in Gaelic, Duncan shoved Methos away and looked around wildly.

 

“If you’re looking for the katana, that’s gone, too.” Methos knew that would produce a reaction, and he was not disappointed.

 

Duncan let loose with a howl of pure rage, grabbed Methos by the front of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. “Where is it? Where’s m’sword?”

 

“Amanda has it,” gasped Methos.

 

“Amanda?” Duncan relaxed his hold slightly. “Why?”

 

“Why do you think? Or do you make a habit of threatening to put a sword through her?”

 

Duncan stared dumbly for a moment, obviously trying to make sense of the words; then his face changed as some part of the memory came back to him. He let go of Methos and turned away. “Didna want to hurt her. Wouldn’t ever hurt her.”

 

“You came damn close last night,” said Methos ruthlessly. “The sword’s better off where it is.”

 

“Is she all right?” whispered Duncan.

 

The remorse in the man’s voice steadied Methos. So he wasn’t as far gone as he looked. “She’s all right. She’s worried about you.”

 

Duncan turned, swaying on his feet. “Sorry,” he whispered, tears in his eyes. “Methos...tell her I’m sorry.”

 

Shit. Methos’ felt his throat tighten absurdly and he cleared it. “You can tell her yourself later. Sit down. I’ll start some coffee.”

 

Duncan shook his head dumbly.

 

“Fine. Then I’ll have some, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long night.” Methos ventured cautiously to the door of what passed for the barge’s kitchen. Not seeing anything moving, he entered, located the coffee maker and started scrubbing the half-inch of crud from its bottom, muttering under his breath. He sensed Duncan’s proximity, and looked up to see him standing in the door watching him with a lost expression.

 

Methos cleared his throat again. God, what a pain in the ass! What was it about this man that made Methos feel compelled to come to his side again and again? This self-righteous twit had insulted him, rejected him, abandoned him when he needed him most...and here Methos was scrubbing his goddamned coffee pot. Methos briefly considered clubbing him over the head with it. “Change your mind?”

 

“Did that really happen?”

 

Methos rinsed out the pot and turned off the water, wondering where the drunk’s mind was wandering now. “Did what really happen?”

 

“All of it. The dreams.”

 

Methos grabbed some paper towels and started drying off the pot with unnecessary thoroughness. Damn. “Mac, let’s talk about this when you’ve sobered up a little, okay?”

 

“Did they happen to you?” Duncan’s voice was ragged.

 

Methos started going through the cupboards, trying frantically to come up with something to divert the Scot’s attention. “Where do you keep the coffee? Or did you throw that overboard with the phone?”

 

“Do ye know what I dreamed last night?” asked Duncan, raising his voice.

 

Methos pulled the coffee down from the shelf, deliberately refusing to meet Duncan’s eyes. “Mac, this is not a good idea. If you’ll just—”

 

“I dreamed someone took out my eyes with a knife.”

 

Methos dropped the coffee and leaned against the counter, closing his eyes. That particular memory was all too vivid.

 

“Did that happen to you?” Duncan’s voice was thick with emotion.

 

“Yes. It happened,” grated Methos. He opened his eyes, straightened, and slammed the coffee and the pot into the machine.

 

“Why am I dreamin’ about it? Why do I feel it?”

 

Methos drew breath to give him an oversimplified explanation, one Duncan could understand in his present state, but was prevented from doing so as Duncan continued, “What did you do to me?”

 

Methos swung toward the younger man in a rage, barely managing not to strike him. “What did _I _do to you? You ass! You’ve brought all this on yourself!”

 

“You’re goin’ to make them stop,” said Duncan in a commanding tone somewhat at variance with his slurred speech and swaying body.

 

“Fine,” hissed Methos. He pushed past the Scot, made his way to his coat, and pulled out his sword. Before reason could rein in his emotions, he thrust the hilt into Duncan’s hand. “Go on, then!”

 

Duncan stared at him stupidly, then down at the blade in his hand. “What d’ye mean?”

 

“You want the dreams to stop, don’t you? It’s all my fault, isn’t it? Surely you don’t have any reservations about killing a butcher like me, do you? Do it! Because it’s the only way the dreams will ever go away completely.” Some small part of Methos’ mind remarked, in its small voice, that it was possible that he had dropped some marbles out on the deck, and wouldn’t now be a good time to look for them?

 

Duncan looked up again, tears in his eyes. “They won’t ever go away?”

 

“Not unless you take my head,” snarled Methos relentlessly, feeling a peculiar relief at the possibility that Duncan might actually do what he suggested. The small voice reminded him that this was precisely what Joe had been afraid of, and hadn’t he said that he wanted to live? What was he doing?

 

Duncan handed him the sword hilt first, a tear running down one cheek. “Then take mine.”

 

Methos shoved the blade back at him angrily. “Oh, no. You don’t get off that easy.”

 

“I cannot live like this. And I cannot kill you.”

 

“Why the hell not?”

 

Duncan stared at the floor in silence for a moment, then muttered something.

 

“What?” demanded Methos loudly.

 

“You’re my friend.”

 

“And just precisely when did you come to this conclusion? I assume it was at some point between the time you told me we were through and the time you killed my student.”

 

Duncan raised wide brown eyes to Methos. “Byron was your student?”

 

“Among other things.” Methos paused, trying to regain control.

 

“I didn’t know,” faltered Duncan.

 

“You didn’t ask. You’ve never asked,” said Methos bitterly. “You ask nothing and expect everything.”

 

Duncan glowered at him, his moment of uncertainty vanished. “Why are you here then?”

 

“Damned if I know. Maybe I have some sick need for the smell of stale whiskey and unwashed socks,” snapped Methos.

 

Duncan’s glower intensified. “I didna ask you to come!”

 

“Case in point,” said Methos acidly. “You have two options, MacLeod. You can take my head and end the dreams completely. Or you can let me teach you how to manage them. Your choice.”

 

Duncan stood in silence for a few heartbeats, and Methos’ small voice began speaking longingly of the benefits of a brisk sprint and some fresh air.

 

“I will not take your head,” Duncan said finally, offering Methos the sword.

 

“Fine,” said Methos evenly, accepting the blade as the small voice uttered fervent prayers of thanksgiving to several now-defunct deities. “And you’ll listen—”

 

“I said I will not take your head,” growled Duncan obstinately, the quintessential immovable object.

 

Methos let fly with a sampler of Sumerian obscenities and pushed past Duncan into the kitchen, thinking furiously that the third as yet unstated but extremely attractive option of having MacLeod’s head stuffed and mounted on Joe’s wall was looking better and better to him.

 

***

 

 

“Carol? Hi, it’s Joe Dawson. Sorry to call so early.”

 

“Joe Dawson?” The sleepy voice at the other end of the line cleared its throat and went on warmly and without any awkwardness. “Joe, it’s been so long! How are you?”

 

Joe sighed inwardly. Obviously Jack had never told her about presiding over Joe’s trial and near execution, and he wasn’t surprised. Jack had never been one to take Watcher business home. Just as well. “Well, I’m holding together. And you?”

 

Richie rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘Cut to the chase,’ and Joe waved him away with a glare.

 

There was a pause. “I’ve had a bit of a rough time, but it’s getting better. I suppose you’ve heard about Jack and me.”

 

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Carol.”

 

“Me, too,” said Carol with a shaky laugh. “But he...just wasn’t the same man I married, Joe.”

 

Joe nodded. “I guess he just never recovered from losing David.”

 

Richie gave Joe a sharp, questioning look, and Joe shook his head with a frown.

 

Carol hesitated a moment, then started speaking very quickly in a strained tone. “It started long before that, Joe. Jack started to change a few months after becoming Regional Coordinator. I don’t know what it was. The power, maybe, or the pressure. And then Watchers started dying, and he felt responsible. He was the RC for Western Europe, he said. He should be able to protect his people. He couldn’t see that there were some things beyond his control. And then David....”

 

“What is she saying?” asked Richie in an impatient stage whisper. Joe threw a pillow at him with an impatient scowl.

 

The woman took a deep breath and continued. “Things were very bad after we lost David, and even worse after the move to Istanbul. Jack talked about David’s death constantly. He wouldn’t let David rest, Joe. He wouldn’t let us move on. And when I told him that I _had_ to move on, he started spending more and more time away from me and from the girls. He was constantly at the office. He became so cold, so obsessive about his research. The Lucius project totally consumed him. I don’t know why he was so drawn to it; the story is so horrible, Joe. But it became all he cared about, all he could talk about. He would even talk about it in front of the girls, and they were starting to have nightmares. I tried to make him see what was happening to him, to get help, but it only made him angry. One night it made him so angry that...that he hit me.” The voice broke.

 

“Oh, Jesus,” murmured Joe. “I’m sorry, Carol.”

 

Richie rolled his eyes and collapsed backward to lie on the floor.

 

“I had to leave, Joe, for the girls’ sake and for mine. I _had_ to go.”

 

“You did the right thing,” said Joe bleakly, wondering now if _he_ had. Sending a man who had just sustained such a devastating loss off to the relative isolation of Istanbul, demoting him to an obscure position...how much had that contributed to his deterioration? _Don’t go there, Dawson_. “Have you heard from him since you left?”

 

Richie sat up quickly with an expectant expression.

 

“Not a word,” said Carol shakily. “Part of me is relieved. Paul tells me that he’s become much worse, that finding poor Johann Zwirner dead last week has just fueled his obsession.” She paused for a moment, then continued in a sharper tone, as if struck by some realization. “You’re calling about Jack, aren’t you?”

 

“Carol, I—”

 

“What is it?” hissed Richie. Joe rapped him across the shins with his cane, and Richie scrambled out of range with a reproachful look.

 

“Has something happened to him?”

 

“No, not that we know of,” said Joe quickly. “But we don’t know where he is. No one’s seen him in Istanbul for several days. He doesn’t answer at home. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

 

“No,” replied Carol, sounding more frightened than worried. “The only place I can think that he’d come is here.”

 

“That’s a possibility,” said Joe quietly. “We ran into Étienne Dupré last night. He was pretty worked up over the Lucius thing; I guess Jack’s been working on him.”

 

“If Étienne is here, then Jack must be too,” said Carol, panic building in her voice. “Oh, my God, Joe. If only half of what Paul says about the way he’s been acting is true, I have to get the girls back to the States. We have to get away—”

 

“Go,” said Joe grimly. “Pack and go, Carol. I’ll find him. Call me when you’re settled in and let me know where you’ll be.”

 

“I will. Thanks, Joe.”

 

The receiver was hung up before Joe could say goodbye. That was one scared lady. Jack must have really melted down to get her on the run like that. Damn.

 

“Let me guess. She doesn’t know where he is either,” said Richie drily, still rubbing his shins.

 

“She doesn’t, but she’s scared to death that he’s coming here. The son of a bitch hit her; that’s why she took off. She’s on the next plane to the States.”

 

“Can we go, too?”

 

“No.”

 

“More coffee?”

 

“More coffee.”

 

***

 

 

“Have some coffee, MacLeod.”

 

“No.”

 

Methos grit his teeth, valiantly resisting the urge to dump the steaming contents of the cup into the Scot’s lap. Duncan sat on the end of the bed in an excruciatingly profound MacLeodian sulk, the sulk of all sulks, a sulk that made Methos’ sword hand itch for the feel of his weapon. One clean slice and it would be over; that lower lip would never exceed its bounds again. It was a truly intense species of pout, and Methos could see how Richie had succumbed to its conditioning. It was almost impossible to resist; he felt his own lower lip struggling to extend itself and bit it unmercifully as he set the coffee on the floor at Duncan’s feet.

 

“Then how about some food?”

 

“No.”

 

Methos straightened. He took a deep breath, then stepped further away, wishing he hadn’t. “Then how about a shower?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” demanded Methos, holding on to his control with difficulty. “Do you have some philosophical affinity with reek, MacLeod?”

 

“I dinna want a shower.”

 

“I don’t give a damn what you dinna want,” snapped Methos. “You _stink_, MacLeod. Do the city of Paris a favor; it’s been good to you.”

 

Duncan scowled, his furrowed brow now threatening to meet the lip somewhere in the vicinity of the end of his nose. “If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.”

 

“Listen, MacLeod,” said Methos in a dangerous tone. “I have endured stenches that would disintegrate your sinus cavities. Food rotting on my plate as I ate it. Open sewers in a city of ten thousand people. Thousands of decaying corpses on a battlefield. But I can honestly say that in five thousand years of experience, I have never encountered a smell quite like yours. I acknowledge the raw power of your reek. I surrender. Okay? Now get in the bloody shower!”

 

Duncan’s eyes widened, and the lip receded slightly as he opened his lips to speak, groped for words, then spluttered, “Get stuffed!”

 

It was too much. That this...this _child_ would sit there in his own filth just to prove he could.... Methos grabbed Duncan by the arm and tried to haul him off the bed, but Duncan shoved him away.

 

“Keep your hands off me!”

 

“Get in the damned shower!” shouted Methos, grabbing the arm again.

 

Duncan shoved harder this time, and Methos lost his balance and fell onto his rear with a thud. “Dinna touch me again!” he bellowed at top volume.

 

“That’s it,” hissed Methos. “That’s the bloody end!”

 

Leaping to his feet, Methos snatched up his sword and lay the edge of the blade against Duncan’s throat. “You are going to bathe. You are going to bathe _now_!”

 

“If you kill me,” said Duncan truculently, “I’ll still smell.”

 

Methos’ eyes narrowed dangerously, his thoughts turning longingly to unbridled carnage. “Not if I run you through and drop you into the Seine, you won’t.”

 

Duncan leaned away from the blade, appearing uneasy for the first time. “You wouldn’t do that.”

 

“Oh, wouldn’t I, though?” Methos met Duncan’s eyes unflinchingly. For one glorious moment Methos thought that fear would triumph over obstinacy; then he watched, heart sinking, as that lower lip assumed its previous position.

 

“Do it, then,” said Duncan belligerently.

 

Methos stared at the drunk for two seconds, then tossed aside his sword in disgust. Time for Plan B.

 

***

 

 

“Yes, Urquhart, I know what time it is,” said Joe wearily. He smacked Richie’s arm as the younger man shoved his wristwatch in front of Joe’s nose with a wickedly helpful expression.

 

“7:40 A.M., Dawson. This had better bloody well be important.”

 

“It is. Has anyone at Headquarters heard from Jack Shapiro?”

 

“Jack _Shapiro_? You called me at this hour to gossip about that lunatic?”

 

_There but for the grace of God, pal,_ thought Joe in weary annoyance. Winston Urquhart, Regional Coordinator for Western Europe, was as likely a candidate for Officious Prick of the Year as Joe had ever had the misfortune to encounter. “He’s gone _missing_, Urquhart. I’ve spoken to his wife and a couple people in the Istanbul office. They say he’s become increasingly unstable.”

 

“And may I ask what business that is of yours, Dawson? Are you his bloody therapist?”

 

“No, I’m a bloody _Watcher_,” snapped Joe. The man’s arrogance reminded him too much of Jack Shapiro before he started to lose it. If this is what the RC job did to a guy, they could keep it. He’d go play his guitar in the street and pass the hat before he’d let a job do that to him. “Étienne Dupré showed up last night babbling something about Lucius Germanicus.”

 

“I know, I know,” snapped Urquhart. “He was here too.”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“And did he have any proof of what he was saying?”

 

“How could he? Lucius has been dead for nine hundred years! What proof could he have?”

 

“That’s what I’m asking _you_!” Joe tried to control his irritation; it didn’t help that Richie was mouthing the word ‘dickwad’ as Joe was trying to carry on the conversation. He tossed a cushion into Richie’s face and continued in a lower tone. “Did you ask Étienne what information he had?”

 

“As I recall, I asked Étienne if he had indulged in any controlled substances and told him to go home and sleep it off,” said Urquhart brusquely. “What is this about, Dawson?”

 

“It’s about a dead Watcher, in case you’ve forgotten, and the coincidental reappearance of Gabriel’s chronicle of Lucius after nine hundred years.”

 

Richie rolled his eyes, mouthing ‘asshole’. Joe made a slashing gesture across his throat and pointed to the empty space on his wall with as fierce a look as he could manage.

 

“I haven’t forgotten anything. What I want to know is what you have to do with it.”

 

Joe cursed inwardly, his mirth curdling. “Look, Urquhart, when someone nearly runs you down in the street and tries to kidnap you because Lucius Germanicus has just come back from the dead and killed a Watcher, you tend to have an interest, okay?”

 

“_Kidnap _you? Why the hell would—”

 

“Obviously Shapiro believes that Lucius is alive and killed Zwirner, and he’s made Étienne believe it too.”

 

“The man must be insane.”

 

“Or the man knows something we don’t. Look, even if this Lucius stuff is bogus, we’ve still got one Watcher killed by someone with access to Gabriel’s chronicle, and another one unstable and on the loose. We’ve got to find Jack, Urquhart. We’ve got to find out what’s going on.”

 

“All right. All right. I’ll get some people on it. But you stay away from Shapiro, is that clear? I don’t want any ugliness.”

 

Joe wondered briefly if Urquhart had classified the pieces of Johann Zwirner arranged so neatly in an Istanbul gutter as ‘ugliness’; his attitude seemed to indicate that he hadn’t.

“And Dawson? Don’t _ever_ call me at this hour again.” The receiver was brought down with a bang; Joe held it away from his ear with a grimace.

 

“Well?” demanded Richie.

 

Joe started to laugh, hanging up the phone. “He doesn’t want any ugliness.”

 

“Butt-munch,” said Richie with calm succinctness, assuming the air of a professional delivering a well-considered assessment.

 

“And he’ll send out some people to look for Jack.”

 

Richie shrugged, obviously unimpressed. “Meaning he doesn’t know where he is.”

 

“Right.” Joe rose with difficulty, waving Richie off as the younger man offered his help. “I’ve had enough of this. There’s one person in Paris who knows where Shapiro is, and he’s right at my front door.”

 

“No way, Joe,” said Richie firmly, planting himself between Joe and the door. “Methos said to stay put, remember? No one in, and no one out.”

 

“And since when do you take orders from Methos?” growled Joe, genuinely surprised.

 

“Since they started making sense,” retorted Richie. “For crying out loud, Joe, even if the Bogeyman hasn’t rolled into town, there’s still Crazy Jack. I really don’t think leaving is a good idea.”

 

“I’m not leaving,” said Joe impatiently, beginning to realize that his ‘nanny’ strategy had come back to bite him in the rear. Damn Methos; that’s probably exactly what he’d had in mind. “I’m going down to the front door. If you’re that set on babysitting, come along, but I’m going to talk to Étienne.” He fixed his most intimidating U.S. Marine do-I-have-to-go-through-you-son look and Richie sighed and stepped to one side.

 

“Okay, okay. We’ll go down to the door, talk to our little friend and come right back up. Right?”

 

“Right,” said Joe reassuringly, making his way slowly toward the door. God, he was tired...tired, sore, and cranky, and he suspected he was going to get a lot more tired, sore, and cranky before this day ended. If it ever _did_ end.

 

***__

Richie bounded back to the front door from the adjoining alley. “He’s not here.”

 

Joe felt his hackles rise. “If Shapiro sent him here to try to talk to me again, he wouldn’t leave until he had.”

 

“Unless Shapiro came and picked him up,” said Richie, looking as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.

 

“Or unless someone else did,” murmured Joe, unable to shake the sinking sensation of being too far from cover.

 

“Shit,” said Richie quietly. “Oh, man, Joe, are you saying—”

 

“I’m saying we need to tell Methos what’s happened. I’m saying we get our asses to the barge _now_.”

 

Richie angled himself in front of Joe again. “Whoa. Now hold on, Joe. You said we weren’t leaving. You said—”

 

“Yeah, and now I’m saying we’re going to the barge,” said Joe determinedly, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. “You coming or staying?”

 

Richie sighed. “Being your nanny is a thankless job, you know that, Dawson?”

 

Joe grinned and headed toward the alley beside the apartment building that led to the garage, then stopped as he realized that Richie hadn’t followed him. Turning around, he saw the younger man glancing about him with an uneasy expression. “What?”

 

Richie caught his eye and shrugged, a trace of sheepishness in his expression. “Sorry. It’s just that feeling of always being _watched_.”

 

Joe felt a chill touch him between his shoulder blades. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“I don’t suppose you’d consider killing the bug I found in your bathtub.”

 

Duncan regarded him with a stony, silent contempt, lip firmly in place and arms crossed against his chest. Methos groaned and lowered his head to the bed. Not a sound came to his ears at that moment but the shower, which was no doubt conducting the harmless insect that had inspired this desperate attempt to its watery grave. So much for Plan H.

 

There was always the plan of last resort, of course, which consisted of Methos running his sword through the drunken idiot’s body and dumping him into the bathtub. He might drown a few times, but Methos hadn’t attended a public dunking in centuries, and he could think of no more worthy candidate for one than Sulky MacPout. But killing MacLeod was not likely to make him particularly receptive to anything Methos had to say, and it was imperative that, for once in his absurdly short life, Duncan MacLeod _listen_ to someone.

 

Methos was running out of options. He had tried everything he could think of over the past two hours, and nothing would budge the Immovable Stench from its perch at the end of the bed. All that remained left to try was...Plan I.

 

He sighed deeply, thankful that he hadn’t had anything to eat for several days, and that Duncan was probably drunk enough that he wouldn’t remember this tomorrow. Summoning all his intestinal fortitude, he swallowed hard and uttered a muffled sob and some exquisitely pathetic raspy breaths, pitched at precisely the correct pitch and volume required for maximum effect.

 

“Methos?” MacLeod’s response was uncertain, but immediate.

 

“Sorry,” whispered Methos, not raising his face from the bed. “I’m sorry, Mac. I just can’t...can’t take seeing you like this.”

 

There was a moment of silence, and Methos swore silently, wondering if he had overplayed it. The hesitant hand on his shoulder reassured him.

 

“Methos....”

 

Methos’ head shot up at the physical contact and the softness of Duncan’s tone. “Mac,” he said huskily. “You _do _care.”

 

“Aye, well, of course,” said Duncan with an uncomfortable expression, removing his hand not quite hastily enough to give offense.

 

“I knew it,” breathed Methos, catching the hand in his own before Duncan could reclaim it, startled by its warm strength. “I could feel it from the moment we met. The moment I looked up and saw those beautiful brown eyes, I knew we were meant for each other.”

 

“You...you what?” stammered Duncan.

 

“Tell me you want me, Mac,” murmured Methos, lifting his face and angling his mouth toward Duncan’s. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you.”

 

“What are you _sayin’_, man?” squeaked Duncan, eyes wide with a slowly growing horror.

 

“I’m saying that I want you more than life itself, more than I want to breathe,” whispered Methos fiercely, ignoring the small voice’s rather tart observation that this was not saying much, since Methos had no desire whatsoever to breathe in this man’s presence. With one fluid motion, Methos seized Duncan’s other wrist, flung himself on top of him, held his breath, and pressed his mouth to the Scot’s with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

 

And Duncan did nothing.

 

Methos had fully expected Duncan to fling him aside in the first second, but the first second came and went and Methos was still kissing Duncan MacLeod. Two seconds. Three. Could Duncan possibly like this? Not that the experience was quite as nauseating as Methos had expected. In fact, nauseating wasn’t in any way an accurate description. It was warm, soft, gentle … arousing. And Duncan seemed to agree … he was beginning to kiss Methos back. Methos’ confused, frantic ruminations ended abruptly as Duncan suddenly exploded into action; he grabbed Methos by the shoulders and shoved him roughly away.

 

Duncan lurched off the bed, tripped, fell onto his backside, and proceeded to back away on hands and feet like a demented crab, shaking his head frantically. “Are you daft, man? Have you lost your mind?”

 

“Only for you,” said Methos huskily as he rose, heart pounding and face peculiarly hot, and grateful beyond words that the remainder of this farce could be played from a relatively safe distance. He made a mental note to go get himself a date at the earliest opportunity.

 

“Methos, I dinna feel that way. I’ve never thought—”

 

“I’ll teach you, Mac. Let me teach you. I know I can bring you pleasure, and you can pleasure me,” breathed Methos, advancing toward Duncan.

 

Duncan staggered to his feet and continued to back away, his arms extended in a pitiful attempt to ward Methos off. “No, no, I dinna want—”

 

“Oh, but you do. I can feel it. I can feel the need pulsing through that magnificently muscled, bronzed body,” said Methos rapturously, computing with precision the trajectory necessary for target acquisition. He stepped slightly to the left and continued to advance, backing Duncan slowly but surely toward the open door of the bathroom. “I want to feel you inside me, Mac—”

 

“No,” gasped Duncan, accelerating his retreat.

 

“And I want you to feel me inside _you_.”

 

“Christ Jesus!”

 

“We’re soul mates, Mac. I’ve known it from the start. I can’t live without you.” Methos pulled the sweatshirt he was wearing over his head and discarded it as he moved forward, noting with sadistic satisfaction the stark terror in Duncan’s eyes.

 

“Keep away!” rasped Duncan backing up into the doorjamb of the bathroom door. “I dinna want to hurt you—”

 

“Don’t you?” purred Methos seductively, angling his approach to shepherd Duncan through the bathroom door. “I thought we’d take turns hurting each other. It will hurt so _good_, Mac. I want your throbbing manhood pounding into me—”

 

“No, no, my manhood’s not throbbing!” cried Duncan wildly, backing up until his calves were against the bathtub.

 

“No?” asked Methos, grinning fiendishly, “Let’s have a look then.” He launched himself into a flying tackle that knocked Duncan backward into the tub and under the falling water with Methos on top of him. They were both drenched instantly. The shower curtain proved to be something of an annoyance, but once Methos wrestled it out of the way, he lay hold of Duncan’s wet sweatshirt and pulled it over the half-stunned Scot’s head with relatively little difficulty. It wasn’t until Methos started yanking on Duncan’s sweatpants that the younger man regained enough awareness to struggle, however ineffectually, and he promptly began bellowing like a bull moose in heat.

 

“Take your hands off me! I’m not throbbing! I dinna want you! _Nooooo!”_

 

“Take it like a man, Mac,” returned Methos coolly, pulling the pants off with one hand and shoving Duncan’s head under the spray with the other.

 

“_No! _I dinna want to take it! Get off me, you daft bastard, get off!”

 

“Am I intruding?”

 

Methos turned, startled, to see Joe Dawson standing in the doorway with the carefully schooled expression of a man who was enjoying himself entirely too much.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” snapped Methos, shoving Duncan’s head under the spray again as he tried to catch a glimpse of the new arrival.

 

_“Joe!” _bellowed Duncan wildly, sputtering as the water ran into his mouth. _“Get him off me, get him off!”_

“Just happened to be in the neighborhood,” said Joe casually. “How’s it going, MacLeod?”

 

_“Get him off!”_

“You were supposed to stay put,” growled Methos, feeling the water collecting inside his wet jeans and shifting uncomfortably. “And where’s—” He paused as the signature of an Immortal reached him. “Oh. You two just decided to take a little stroll, did you?”

 

“Well, it got a little boring at my place, so we thought we’d shuffle on over here,” drawled Joe.

 

Methos saw Joe’s Watcher eye taking in every detail, and he could just imagine the scene from his perspective: the shower curtain torn from its rings, the water covering every surface, the naked, bellowing man in the tub, and the half-naked man sitting on top of him. It would make a hell of a Chronicle entry, and Methos grinned in pure sadistic pleasure at the thought of this scene being recorded for posterity.

 

_“He wants me!” _howled Duncan.

 

“Come again?” asked Joe politely, every muscle in his face fighting a grin.

 

_“I’m not throbbing!”_

“Oh, good for you, Mac,” said Joe pleasantly.

 

“What the hell?” Richie appeared at the door with wide eyes. “Whoa.”

 

_“He wants me inside him!” _spluttered Duncan from under the spray.

 

“Ahhh...okay,” said Richie faintly.

 

“Richie,” gasped Duncan breathlessly, obviously becoming aware of his former student’s presence. “It’s not what it looks like....”

 

“Be useful, Rich, and bring us a cup of coffee,” said Methos calmly, squirting some shampoo onto Duncan’s head and lathering it roughly. The water was rapidly going cold.

 

“Coffee. Right,” said Richie hastily, disappearing.

 

Joe cleared his throat, mouth twitching. “Are you _sure_ you’re not throbbing, MacLeod?”

 

Duncan was prevented from answering as Methos shoved his head back under the water and glared at the Watcher balefully. “You are not supposed to be here. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Joe? You know what could—”

 

“I needed to talk to you _now_,” replied Joe quietly, catching his eye.

 

Methos knew the look, and his stomach dropped. Shit. Something had happened. “Give me a minute.”

 

“Take your time,” said Joe, obviously unable to restrain a grin any longer. “I can get a few shots for his file.” He pulled a small camera out of his pocket.

 

“Put it away,” growled Methos, fighting exhausted laughter as he rinsed the last of the shampoo from Duncan’s hair and shoved more of his body under the falling water.

 

“Joe,” rasped Duncan.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“I know. You’re not throbbing. Do I want to know what brought this on?”

 

Methos glanced up at his friend with his best innocent expression. “I offered him the ecstasy of my manly love,” he said with moving sincerity.

 

“Yup, that’d do it,” said Joe drily.

 

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me.” Each word was uttered very distinctly, and Methos looked down into a pair of smoldering but definitely more sober brown eyes.

 

Richie appeared in the doorway with eyes like saucers and a coffee cup in his hands as Methos released his captive and stood up, dripping. “Oh, gladly, MacLeod. You’re quite a disappointment, and don’t think I can’t do better. I’ve had a hell of a lot better men than _you_ throb for me.”

 

Richie put the coffee down on the vanity and exited with a red face and no comment.

 

Duncan glared up at him, valiantly ignoring the cold water pouring down his face. “Get. Out.”

 

“I suppose I can trust you to wash your armpits?”

 

_“Get out!” _roared Duncan in a voice that could be heard in the nave of Notre Dame.

 

Joe calmly snapped a picture before retreating, and Duncan snarled inarticulately.

 

Methos climbed out of the tub and grabbed a towel on his way toward the door. “Don’t let your coffee get cold, MacLeod.”

 

“The next time you touch me—”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” retorted Methos with a smirk. “You’ve got a lot to learn about showing a guy a good time, MacLeod. Just what precisely would be my motivation for touching you?”

 

Duncan seized the first object at hand, a bar of soap, and flung it at Methos in rage and frustration. “Get the hell out of here!”

 

Methos caught the soap neatly and tossed it back into the tub. “You need that more than I do,” he observed crisply. “Use it.” He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

 

***

 

 

Joe sank gratefully into Duncan’s sofa next to Richie, leaning back and closing his eyes wearily. God, he could sleep for a week. “Well, that was fun.”

 

“I don’t know about you,” said Richie dazedly, “but I could’ve gone my whole life without seeing that.”

 

Joe had no idea where the energy for a laugh came from, but it came nonetheless. He opened his eyes and looked at the young man beside him. “You ought to get out more, Rich. Expand your horizons.”

 

Richie gave him a sour look. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Dawson.”

 

Joe laughed again; it seemed like the only thing he could do. It was either that or have a nervous breakdown. He briefly considered the breakdown, but before he could give the matter any serious thought, he heard the bathroom door close, and Methos entered the room.

 

Methos’ flippant expression faded the instant he laid eyes on his friends, and he sighed, rubbing a towel through his hair and across his chest as he made his way to the bureau beside the bed.

He pulled off his soaked sneakers and socks, muttering under his breath.

 

“How is he?” asked Richie nervously.

 

“He’s wet,” said Methos shortly, yanking open one of the drawers and rooting through the clothes. “And angry. And a lot less pungent than he was a few minutes ago, to say nothing of less drunk. Now you two have some explaining to do. Make it fast.”

 

“It’s not my fault,” said Richie hastily as Methos’ sharp gaze settled on him. “I told him to stay put, but he wouldn’t.”

 

“Then you should have knocked him down and sat on him,” snapped Methos, stripping off his wringing wet jeans and drying himself.

 

Richie sighed and pointedly averted his gaze, looking at Joe with a pained expression.

 

“Don’t mind us,” said Joe mildly, noting Richie’s discomfort with amusement.

 

Methos snorted and pulled on a pair of Duncan’s sweatpants, yanking the drawstring as tight as it would go. The pants barely stayed up. “What? I’ve got something you don’t? Tell me what’s happened, Joe. Before Mac gets out here.”

 

Richie opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then shut it again, frowning thoughtfully.

 

“Nobody knows where Shapiro is,” said Joe quietly. “But I’d put real money on his being in Paris. The people closest to him say he’s become emotionally unstable and obsessed with Lucius Germanicus.”

 

Methos froze for a moment in the act of struggling into one of Duncan’s tee shirts, then continued. “And?” His voice was taut.

 

“And we can’t find Étienne.”

 

Methos nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He’ll be with Shapiro, then.”

 

“Maybe,” said Joe softly. “But why would Étienne stand there all night to talk to me and then leave without even trying?”

 

“Maybe because he saw he wasn’t going to get the chance,” put in Richie quickly. “He saw he wasn’t going to get you alone. That’s probably what he’s telling Shapiro right now.”

 

“I hope you’re right,” said Joe quietly, trying to ignore the long-unused battle instinct that insisted on screaming that they were wrong. “Because if you aren’t....”

 

“There’s no reason to think anything else right now,” said Methos in a strained voice. “Look, this is not something we should discuss here, so—”

 

“Why not? Mac could help,” said Richie with a puzzled frown.

 

“Mac could help with what?” came from the direction of the bathroom door.

 

Joe sighed. Shit. This was not good. “Nothing important, Mac. Just Watcher business.”

 

Duncan approached slowly but steadily, tying the sash of his bathrobe as he moved. His eyes swept the three men suspiciously. “Oh? Has _Adam_ renewed his membership?”

 

“No,” said Methos sharply.

 

“What about you, Richie? Enlisted yet?”

 

Richie looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Come on, Mac, relax. We’re just trying to help Joe out with a little problem, that’s all.”

 

“You both look like you’ve been up all night,” persisted Duncan, eyes raking over both his former student and his Watcher.

 

“Mac, we need to talk,” said Methos firmly.

 

“I thought so,” said Duncan grimly. “What have you dragged them into?”

 

Joe could almost _feel_ Methos’ emotional recoil, saw his eyes narrow and his jaw set, and spoke up quickly. “Nobody’s dragged anybody anywhere, MacLeod. This has nothing to do with Methos.”

 

“You’re sure of that, are you? What’s going on?”

 

“We need to talk about the dreams, Mac.”

 

Joe could hear the effort required to keep Methos’ voice calm and steady, and offered up a brief prayer for a reasoned response from a very unreasonable Duncan MacLeod.

 

Duncan studied him for a moment, then shrugged and seated himself in a chair across from Joe and Richie. “Well?”

 

Methos rose from the bed and came closer to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Joe. “You can’t drink for a while. That only makes them worse.”

 

“Fine,” said Duncan evenly.

 

Methos leaned forward angrily. “I mean it, MacLeod. No alcohol. I speak from experience, okay? The more you drink, the worse the dreams get. Got it?”

 

“I get it,” replied Duncan coldly.

 

Joe flinched involuntarily at the sound. If anyone had told him six months ago that MacLeod would ever use that voice to address Methos, a man who had saved his life half a dozen times, he would have told them they were crazy. Damn him! Joe managed to keep his mouth shut, knowing interruptions would only prolong the agony.

 

Methos drew a quick breath and continued in a strained tone. “They’ll become less frequent in time, in a few weeks or months, but you’ll have them occasionally from now on. There are meditation techniques that I can teach you to deal with them, if you’ll let me.” He paused, searching Duncan’s face.

 

Joe’s gaze went from Methos’ taut, anxious expression to Duncan’s cold, closed one. _Damn it, you idiot, he’s trying to help you!_

 

“Do you have any questions?” asked Methos, after the pause had become painful.

 

“Yes,” replied Duncan in a measured tone.

 

Joe closed his eyes, fearing the worst, and he was not disappointed.

 

“How did you do this to me?”

 

Joe’s eyes snapped open in time to see Methos fling himself away from the couch and snatch up his coat, his face devastatingly expressionless.

 

Duncan sprang out of his chair and grabbed him by the arm. “You’re going to answer me! And for once in your life, you’re going to tell the truth!”

 

Joe struggled to his feet to intervene, but Richie rushed past him to grab Duncan’s wrist, forcing him to loosen his grip. “Back off, Mac,” he said angrily. “You are way outta line on this one. Just back the hell off.”

 

Duncan released Methos’ arm, more from surprise at Richie’s interference than anything else, if Joe were any judge of the man’s expression.

 

Methos yanked his arm away and took two steps back, breathing hard. “You did this to yourself,” he said in quiet fury. “You took another head too soon after the double quickening we shared. I tried to stop you, if you’ll recall. But sentence had already been passed.” He laughed harshly; it was a painful sound.

 

Duncan’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “Byron....” Then his expression hardened again. “There was no other way. He killed Mike, and he would have killed again.”

 

“Don’t delude yourself, MacLeod,” snarled Methos, unleashing the full volume of his wrath. “You didn’t kill Byron because of anything he did. You killed him because of who he was. You killed him because he was my friend.”

 

“That’s a lie!” shouted Duncan too quickly.

 

_Bulls-eye_, thought Joe grimly.

 

“How many times are you going to execute me by proxy, MacLeod? Who’s next? Amanda? Joe? Richie?”

 

Duncan’s face flushed dull red and twisted with rage. He lunged at Methos, only to be blocked by Richie, standing stolidly in front of him with his hands on his shoulders. “Methos, now’s not the time,” said Richie urgently over his shoulder. “Leave it!”

 

“Will both of you just knock it the hell off?” demanded Joe in frustration. “Don’t we have enough to worry about without this?”

 

“Oh, yes, the Watcher business,” snarled Duncan. “What is it, Methos? Another old friend in town?”

 

Joe cursed inwardly as Methos went suddenly ashen and silent. He turned away and walked mechanically over to pick up his scattered clothing.

 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Duncan’s voice rose to an indignant and strangely triumphant shout. “Another monster from your past has come looking for his old partner, right? So what’s the plan, Death on a horse? How many innocent lives are you playing with this time? Or is it just Joe and Richie that you’re willing to sacrifice?”

 

“MacLeod, shut your mouth!” hissed Joe furiously. He knew it was the booze and the nightmares talking, but that didn’t mean MacLeod should be allowed to get away with this crap.

 

“Why? I’m right, aren’t I?”

 

“No!”

 

“He’s trying to manipulate me into tying up another of his nasty little loose ends for him. Why else do you think he’s offering me his help?”

 

“Are you crazy, Mac? He’s helping you because he’s your friend,” said Richie angrily, giving Duncan’s shoulders a shake.

 

“He’s not capable of friendship,” snarled Duncan. “He doesn’t care who he endangers, as long as he saves his own skin. He’s just using us. We’re nothing to him!”

 

Methos finished gathering his belongings and left without a word.

 

Joe forced himself to breathe, watching as Richie pulled his hands away from his former teacher’s shoulders and stepped away. The amazement in the young man’s face faded into disappointment, and then into something akin to disgust.

 

“You goddamned son of a bitch.” Joe heard the words, and realized only then that it was he who had spoken them.

 

Duncan turned to him with a shocked expression. “What?”

 

Joe moved to stand close to the man, moving awkwardly; for some reason he had put his cane in his left hand. He was dimly aware that he was shaking, but it wasn’t from exhaustion this time. “Where the hell do you get off saying that shit to him?”

 

“Joe, he’s—”

 

“He’s a man who’s risked his life to save yours, more than once! He’s your friend! And he’s _my_ friend.”

 

Duncan’s face twisted with contempt. “He’s nobody’s friend, Joe. If he saved my life, it’s because there was something in it for him.”

 

“You ungrateful bastard—”

 

“He’s up to something, can’t you see that? He’s not your friend. He’s _using_ you, Joe!”

 

Complete silence fell. Joe studied the man before him, once a hero, then a friend, and now a stranger, with the detachment that springs to life to protect a man whose emotions burn too intensely for his own good. He knew that Duncan wasn’t entirely sober, and that two weeks of these nightmares had left him emotionally unstable. He didn’t care. The man had crossed the line. Joe spoke into the silence softly and menacingly.

 

“You know, pal, you have gotten to be one hell of an asshole.”

 

Duncan’s jaw dropped in astonishment, and before it could move again, Joe smashed his fist into it with a force that toppled Duncan to the floor with enough impact to knock the Scot almost senseless.

 

Joe very nearly fell on top of him, but managed to get his balance in the nick of time, leaning heavily on his cane. _Oh. That’s why I put it in my left hand. _Made sense. He’d never been able to get much power out of his left cross.

 

Joe watched in grim satisfaction as Duncan struggled to sit up, staring up at Joe in disbelief. Joe leaned down slightly and spoke two words, slowly, distinctly, and with a dark pleasure that shocked him even as he indulged in it. “We’re. Through.”

 

Duncan’s eyes widened; he wiped the blood from his mouth. “Joe, you don’t—”

 

“I used to think you were the finest man I’d ever known. I used to pray you’d be the one left standing at the end. I don’t know what’s happened to you, and at this point I am past caring. So long, MacLeod.”

 

Joe turned and made his way toward the door, passing Richie with an inquiring look. The younger man had stood by, arms crossed over his chest, during the entire argument, and had not moved at the blow.

 

Richie met his gaze evenly, with a somber expression. “I’ll be right with you, Joe.”

 

Joe nodded and continued toward the door.

 

“Richie,” said Duncan, now sounding genuinely shaken, “You have to trust me. He’s not your—”

 

“Give me a call when you’re tired of being an asshole, Mac,” said Richie in as cutting a tone as Joe had ever heard from him. “And if you ever run into the Duncan MacLeod that took me in off the streets and taught me what a decent man was, tell him I’d be glad to hear from him. It’s been a while.”

 

“Rich....” Duncan’s voice was so faint with shock that Joe could barely hear it.

 

At the next moment Richie was at Joe’s side, offering his shoulder to help him up the stairs. At any other time, Joe would have waved off the offer of assistance impatiently, but just then Joe felt he could use all the support he could get. God, he was tired. He was so...damned...tired. He leaned on Richie more heavily, cursing the necessity of doing so.

 

As they emerged onto the deck, Joe’s thoughts turned suddenly and anxiously to Methos. God only knows where the man might have gotten to. Damn! He should have sent Richie after him, but he hadn’t been thinking straight. Wonder why. Too much whiskey, too much coffee, no sleep, bogeymen, drunken Scotsmen, and his first knock-out right hook in thirty years. What a night. Hell, what a morning. Where would that delinquent relic have gone?

 

“It’s okay,” said Richie with a grin as he helped Joe down the gangplank. “He’s in the car.”

 

Joe sighed in relief, then did a double-take. “How the hell- Are you reading minds now?”

 

“Nope. You just had that look on your face.”

 

“What look?”

 

“The nanny look,” said Richie with overstated seriousness and teasing eyes.

 

“Great,” said Joe in disgust. “I’m beginning to understand Methos’ problem with this.”

 

***

 

 

Methos leaned back in the front passenger seat of Joe’s car with his eyes closed as he sensed Richie’s approach. Joe’s voice reached him a couple of seconds later, and he found himself tensing involuntarily.

 

Joe. The thought that his friend might believe the things MacLeod had said was a soul-killing one—all the more because Methos suspected that some of them were true. MacLeod had called it, at least so far as he was concerned. Methos knew perfectly well that the possibility of Mac’s assistance in dealing with Lucius had been a factor in his decision to help him. Maybe MacLeod was right. Methos was no one’s friend but his own; maybe he wasn’t capable of anything else.

 

Methos drew a ragged breath at the thought of Joe’s reaction when he realized the truth of MacLeod’s accusations. Damn him. Damn Duncan MacLeod to hell.

 

Two of the car doors opened, and Methos heard Joe climb into the driver’s seat beside him. Richie slid into the back seat. The doors shut, and there were several moments of silence.

 

Without moving a muscle, Methos drew a shaky breath and spoke very quietly. “Did I hear a thud?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” came Richie’s voice. Methos was astonished at its jubilant tone. “You heard a _major_ thud.”

 

Methos opened his eyes and raised his head to look at Joe. The Watcher met his gaze with a rueful expression. He looked bloody awful; he was obviously exhausted and in pain. But there was an air of long-delayed satisfaction about him that made Methos sit up. “What did you do?” he demanded.

 

Joe cleared his throat and shrugged. “Irish temper. My dad had it, too. You can’t fight the genes.”

 

“Is the right hook genetic, too?” asked Richie, grinning ear to ear.

 

“You hit him,” said Methos in soft amazement. He couldn’t quite believe it. He had assumed that the thud was something being thrown—probably by MacLeod in the last throes of his tantrum.

 

“He decked him,” said Richie with a satisfaction that made Methos do a double take. “Landed him right on his ass. Did the boat rock?”

 

“Joe,” said Methos in a subdued tone. “You shouldn’t have—”

 

“He had it coming,” growled Joe, eyes sharpening as they swept Methos’ face.

 

“Maybe not,” said Methos quietly. “He was right.”

 

The brief silence that reigned after those words warned Methos that Joe Dawson might be mustering his resources, and his suspicions were almost immediately confirmed. When Joe spoke, it was in his most dangerous tone. “About what?”

 

“About me.”

 

Joe leaned forward with a fierce expression, forcing eye contact. “He was _not_ right about you,” he said flatly, not a trace of doubt in his face or his voice.

 

Methos swallowed hard at the faith he saw there, and his gaze darted to Richie, who was staring at him as if he had two heads. It dawned on Methos that the possibility that MacLeod might be right about him had never even occurred to these two. He drew a breath and tried again. “Joe, he was right. I was thinking that we would need his help if Lucius showed up. I was.”

 

“Of course you were! What the hell’s wrong with that?” snapped Joe impatiently.

 

“It’s possible I’m not capable of friendship,” continued Methos in a remote, analytical tone. There was too much at stake for Joe not to understand this. “It’s possible my survival instincts preclude that at this point. Maybe I just form attachments to people I can use to keep myself alive. MacLeod was right, Joe.”

 

Joe stared at him with a shocked expression for a moment, then slammed his fist onto the dashboard. “Screw MacLeod! You listen to _me_. You are not incapable of friendship. Look, I know I’ve told you to your face that you’re a calculating son of a bitch, and I don’t doubt you could manipulate the moon out of the sky if you set your mind to it. But if you think I’m going to buy the idea that you don’t see us as anything but an insurance policy, then you do not know me—or yourself.”

 

“Have you considered the possibility that I just might know myself a little better than you do?” asked Methos harshly, hating the pain in Joe’s face, hating himself for having caused it. But the man had to know. His life might depend on it. “I’ve had a long time to become familiar with my little quirks. I’ve done things to survive that are a hell of a lot more ugly than manipulation.”

 

Joe opened his mouth to respond, but was prevented by an explosion of laughter from the back seat. Methos, startled, turned around to glare at Richie, who laughed even harder as he did so.

 

“What the hell is so funny?” growled Methos, disconcerted. This was the last reaction he had expected.

 

“You,” chortled Richie. “Oooooh, I’m Mr. Death. I’m sooo big and bad.”

 

“Shut up,” snapped Methos.

 

Joe started laughing helplessly, letting his head sink forward to rest on the steering wheel. “Oh, God. It’s like having kids.”

 

Richie leaned forward to nudge Methos, still laughing. “You really think we’re going to buy this crap?”

 

“Look, Junior—”

 

“So how am _I _keeping you alive, huh?”

 

Methos snorted. “And when did I say anything about forming an attachment to _you_?”

 

“How is Joe keeping you alive?” pursued Richie, ignoring the remark.

 

Methos fell silent for a moment, determined to find an answer that would shut Richie up...and instead found himself struggling to find any answer at all.

 

“How is Amanda keeping you alive?”

 

Methos groped for a response. This was ridiculous. The kid was doing it to him again.

 

“And how has Mac kept you alive?” Richie’s voice was very soft now, his laughter gone. “Seems to me that you’ve spent the past three years trying to keep _him_ alive, and nearly getting whacked in the process. So how do you explain that, Mr. Survival Instinct? Huh?”

 

“Poor judgment,” muttered Methos, then thought of an answer. He cleared his throat and raised his voice slightly. “Or maybe I’m just lulling him into a false sense of security so that at some critical point in the Game I can take his head. Maybe you and Amanda will be next. Maybe I keep Joe around because he has inside information. Ever think of that?”

 

“Nope,” retorted Richie flippantly. “And neither did you.”

 

“You’re sure of that, are you?” said Methos harshly.

 

“Yes,” said Joe softly, no longer laughing. “We are.” His eyes met Methos’ for a moment; then Methos looked away.

 

He was unable to face the trust he saw there, or the trust he knew he would see in Richie’s face. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back, realizing as he did so that he was trembling. He felt Joe lay a hand on his arm, and Methos laid his hand on top of Joe’s, not opening his eyes. The three men sat in silence for several seconds.

 

“God, you’re both pains in the ass,” said Methos finally, in a barely audible tone.

 

“It’s part of my charm,” protested Richie mildly.

 

Joe chuckled softly, withdrawing his hand as Methos did.

 

“Right,” growled Methos, forcing his eyes open and steadying his voice. “It’s getting so a man can’t wallow in his own angst anymore without being cheered up. Suffering is good for the soul.”

 

“Bullshit,” said Joe with a grin, starting the car. “Never did a damn thing for me. How about breakfast?”

 

“You buying?”

 

“Nah. Let the kid buy.”

 

“The kid spent all his money on beer last night,” retorted Richie, leaning back in his seat. “Let Methuselah buy. And make it a _real_ breakfast, geezer, not one of these coffee-and-a-roll jobs. I want _real food_.”

 

“Meaning he wants to go to McDonald’s,” said Methos, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “The finest food in the world at his fingertips, and he wants an Egg McMuffin.”

 

“Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad,” returned Joe with a teasing grin.

 

“Oh, fine,” growled Methos, struggling to keep up the pretense. At that moment, he would have had caviar flown in from Russia for them if that’s what they’d wanted. “Grease on a bun it is. On one condition.”

 

“Yeah?” Joe looked at him expectantly, pausing before he put the car in gear.

 

“Hand over the film.”

 

Joe’s face spread into his most infectious grin, and Methos found himself laughing before he could stop himself.

 

Richie leaned forward again with a giggle, laying his hand on Methos’ shoulder. “Don’t give it to him, Joe. You could live on the blackmail for years.”

 

“You really want the film?” Joe started to laugh softly.

 

“Yes, I really want the film!” said Methos in a reasonable facsimile of his most acerbic tone. “You’re not putting those pictures of me in MacLeod’s file. I have a reputation to think of, and I don’t want future generations of Watchers to think that Adam Pierson had such nauseating taste in bathing partners. Hand it over.”

 

Joe fished the camera out of his pocket and handed it to him, still laughing. Methos popped open the back. It was empty.

 

Richie exploded into laughter again. “Oh, man. Oh, man, Joe.”

 

Methos eyed Joe appreciatively, unable to wipe off the silly grin he knew was on his face. “You are a very sick man, Joseph.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“He’ll be stewing about those pictures for weeks,” said Richie, still laughing helplessly.

 

“Months,” said Methos, letting his laughter go.

 

“Years,” said Joe with an immense satisfaction not entirely unsullied by sadistic glee. “Let’s go eat.”

 

***

 

 

Duncan sat on the floor with his hand to his jaw for a minute after the door closed, unable to think clearly or move, hurting. The pain in his jaw had started to fade almost instantly, but...Richie. And Joe. Why? They didn’t understand. He was trying to protect them. They had to listen....

 

He struggled to his feet and staggered up the stairs and out the door onto the deck. He caught sight of Joe’s car as it started to roll away; caught sight of the three men inside.

 

They were laughing.

 

Richie was looking at Joe with the undisguised affection that Duncan remembered all too clearly had once been his alone, and his hand was resting on Methos’ shoulder. Duncan turned away from the disappearing car and into the cool wind, breathing hard. He’d lost them. He’d lost them all. Richie, Joe, Amanda...Methos. How? Why?

 

He sank to sit cross-legged on the deck, his face buried in his hands, and let the sun beat down on him as he tried to clear the remaining fog of alcohol from his mind. Methos had been right. The drink was not helping. He hadn’t been able to think straight in two weeks. He hadn’t been able to manage a thought or a feeling that wasn’t bound up in those damned dreams or in the drink it took to forget them. It was the drink that had made him raise his sword to Amanda; he’d have cut his own hand off before he’d have done that sober. What the hell had he been doing to himself...and to them?

 

His words to Methos and Joe came back to him and he cursed helplessly. Damn! Damn! Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut until he was fully sober? The conclusions he had jumped to appalled him. Sure, Methos might be up to something—but despite all his mistrust, Duncan couldn’t quite believe that Methos would actually harm Joe or Richie. The truth was that Duncan hadn’t a clue what Joe’s “Watcher business” was, or if Methos was involved or not. Of course, they might have told him about it if he hadn’t come on like some paranoid lunatic and attacked Methos like that.

 

God! He had been so certain, a few minutes ago, that Methos had been responsible for the dreams. How? How could Methos have given him nightmares, for God’s sake? He must have been out of his mind. Methos’ explanation had made sense; it explained everything he had been experiencing. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Why? Because his brains had been pickled for the past two weeks, that’s why.

 

_He’s not your friend, Joe. He’s using you...._

Duncan groaned aloud. No wonder Joe had punched him in the face. Joe believed in his friendship with Methos. He should have anticipated his friend’s reaction; after all, it hadn’t been that long since Duncan had believed in Methos, too. And Duncan knew, now that his mental haze was receding, that he had had no right to question that friendship. Whatever doubts Duncan had about who Methos really was, or whether or not he could be trusted, were between Methos and himself.

 

And who _was_ Methos, really?

 

_He’s a man who’s risked his life to save yours, more than once!_

That’s how Joe saw him. And in all fairness, that was how Duncan had seen him once. But when Duncan looked at him now, all he could see was the man who had spent a thousand years as murderer and rapist; a man who had taken pleasure in inflicting pain and death.

 

Images from the dreams passed before Duncan’s closed eyes, and he shuddered involuntarily. Methos was also a man who had had pain and death inflicted upon _him_. The sadistic pleasures of his life with the Horsemen had carried a price; Methos had paid dearly for his crimes even before he had left Kronos. How often had he paid since? Only Methos knew, and he was unlikely to tell Duncan MacLeod.

 

Duncan forced his thoughts away from the dreams. They didn’t matter; whether or not Methos had paid didn’t matter. This was about the betrayal of trust. Methos had deceived a friend who had trusted him implicitly. He had refused to stand openly against this monster from his past, and had lied to both friend and monster in a game of manipulation to save his own skin. Everything this man now said or did had to be construed in that context.

 

Didn’t it?

 

Was he seeing Methos clearly? Was he even _able_ to see Methos clearly at this point? Joe certainly didn’t seem to think so. And Richie....

 

_If you ever run into the Duncan MacLeod that took me in off the streets and taught me what a decent man was, tell him I’d be glad to hear from him._

Richie thought he had changed, for the worse, and so did Joe; changed enough for them to walk out on him...and it was his treatment of Methos that had been the last straw. Could they be seeing something in Methos that he couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?

 

Duncan raised his face from his hands and drew a ragged breath, feeling the wind sting the tears on his face. It didn’t matter now. They were gone, and as Methos had said, he had no one to blame but himself.

 

***

 

 

Footsteps made virtually silent by centuries in the pursuit of the art of unobtrusive service reached him only moments after Nathan’s signature touched him, and Lucius raised his eyes from his book inquiringly.

 

“The photographs you ordered, Master,” murmured Nathan, laying several black and white images on the desk before him.

 

Lucius nodded, pleased. “How fares our guest?”

 

Nathan’s well-schooled expression would have revealed nothing to anyone who had not known him for almost a millennium. To someone who had, his contempt was palpable. “He is but poor sport, Master. He lost consciousness minutes after you left and has not yet revived. I believe he will not live long enough to bring you any pleasure.”

 

“I suspected as much. Only the weak-minded and the weak-willed follow dogs, and they are easily broken.” Lucius examined each photograph carefully, studying the faces. “Ah. Here is our Mr. Dawson with...Mr. Ryan?”

 

He leaned over the photograph, scrutinizing it carefully. There was no mistake. He had spent fifteen hundred years developing his memory for faces. “They would appear to know each other very well indeed. Interesting. A Watcher who consorts with Immortals. And perhaps an Immortal who consorts with Watchers.”

 

Lucius’ gaze slid across the photograph to study the others, dismissing those whose faces he did not recognize, until he reached the last image. He froze for a moment, unable, for one moment, to believe what his eyes told him. He felt his breath come more quickly and his heart race as he pored over the image before him: a young man, tall and slender, with angular features and short dark hair standing beside an attractive young woman. He recognized the woman, of course, an Immortal who called herself Amanda. But the man....

 

“Nathan, do you recognize this man?” He was pleased that his voice remained calm. He nodded toward the photograph.

 

Nathan’s eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed in hatred. The expression vanished; it had been no more than a flicker. “Yes, Master. I recognize him.”

 

“The elusive Marcus Gaius,” Lucius murmured, as pleased by Nathan’s control as he had been by his own. “And once more in the company of a Watcher.”

 

“Your orders, Master?”

 

At that moment an agonized shriek pierced the air, followed by a high-pitched babble of semi-inarticulate, screamed pleas; the words “stop,” and “please” were the only distinguishable words.

 

“Kill it,” said Lucius in cold contempt. “It bores me. And have its remains sent to Watcher headquarters in the usual manner.”

 

“At once, Master.”

 

“As soon as night falls, take as many men as you need and go back to the address where these photographs were taken.” Lucius indicated two of the photographs. “And bring these people to me.”

 

“Yes, Master,” said Nathan with quiet satisfaction. He picked up the photographs and left the room silently.

 

Lucius returned to his book.

 

The shrieking babble became a series of long, deep-throated screams that continued without any sign of cessation for several minutes—and then abruptly stopped.

 

Lucius nodded his approbation. He did at times appreciate the silence. It was simply impossible to give Shakespeare’s sonnets the attention they deserved if one was constantly distracted by such compelling diversions.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Hey. Hey!”

 

Joe heard the frantic rustling of a paper bag and the squeak of styrofoam containers behind him as he turned the corner of his apartment building.

 

He glanced over his shoulder at Richie, who was busily digging through his McDonald’s bag as he followed Joe. Methos, walking at Richie’s side, met Joe’s gaze with a pained expression.

 

“Where are my extra hash browns?” demanded Richie irritably. “If they ripped me off for my extra hash browns....”

 

“Oh, no. Not the hash browns. Please, God, not the hash browns!” Methos shoved his hand into the bag with an anguished expression, his voice rising melodramatically. “Will the horrors of this day never cease?”

 

Joe pulled the door open, fighting the desire to giggle. Oh, yeah. He was definitely getting punchy.

 

“You’re a riot, Methuselah,” growled Richie. He smacked Methos’ hand away and continued to paw through the bag for a moment, then ground to a halt, staring first one way, then the other.

 

“What?” asked Methos, in a sharp voice that made Joe freeze halfway through the door.

 

“Road kill-boy,” said Richie softly, meeting Methos’ gaze and then Joe’s. “He’s not back.”

 

“Shit!” Joe pushed past them to make his way to the other corner of the building, his stomach suddenly in very unpleasant knots. He had almost managed to put Étienne and everything else about the last twenty-four hours out of his mind. It was still possible that Étienne was with Shapiro, of course, but.... He reached the other corner and stared down the empty side street. No Étienne. Damn. Damn!

 

“Joe,” said Methos quietly in his ear, and Joe jumped. He hadn’t even heard the man following him. “Let’s get inside.”

 

Joe turned, saw the carefully controlled anxiety in his friend’s face, and nodded. They moved as quickly as they could manage to the door, where Richie was waiting for them with an inquiring expression.

 

“No,” said Methos shortly, in answer. “Get the door, Rich.”

 

“Oh, shit _green_,” said Richie in disgust, yanking the door open and holding it for Joe. “You think—”

 

“I think we all need some sleep,” said Methos quietly, crossing the lobby and ringing for the elevator.

 

Joe found himself nodding in exhausted agreement as the doors slid open. God, that sounded good. Sleep. Sleep without nightmares, if that were possible under the circumstances. Étienne’s continued absence was setting off every internal alarm he had. But he had to sleep, alarms or no alarms. He watched Methos hit the button for his floor, fighting to stay awake and erect.

 

Richie sighed loudly and started rooting through his bag again. The smell of McDonald’s food flooded the elevator car. Methos raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment with an impatient expression, and Joe started laughing in spite of himself. Thank God for the kid.

 

“Find your AWOL hash browns, Rich?”

 

“Not...oh, here they are,” said Richie triumphantly, as the elevator doors slid open.

 

“What a relief,” said Methos drily, leading the way to Joe’s door.

 

Richie shoved a hash brown into his mouth and managed to speak around it in defiance of every law of physics. “What’s your problem, geezer? Hash brown envy?”

 

“Not a chance,” said Methos calmly, taking Joe’s key and dumping his damp clothing into Joe’s empty hand. He unlocked the door. “Mine was bigger than yours.”

 

Richie started to laugh, gagged, and struggled to dispose of whatever was left in his mouth. The process left him momentarily unable to speak.

 

Joe, watching Methos keenly, barely heard the exchange. His eyes were riveted to Methos’ set face as the Immortal very gingerly pushed the door open and scanned the empty room. Midday sunlight poured in the windows, and everything seemed exactly as they had left it. Methos gestured to Joe to stay back and stepped inside, glancing quickly around the living room. He disappeared into the kitchen.

 

“What’s the—” began Richie, pushing forward.

 

Joe grabbed his arm and shook his head as Methos emerged again, glanced reassuringly at Joe, then headed toward the bedroom.

 

“What, Joe?” asked Richie in an undertone. “There’s no Immortal here.”

 

“Then obviously it’s not Immortals he’s worried about,” said Joe quietly.

 

“Then who?”

 

“Later, Rich.”

 

Methos reappeared, removing his coat and draping it over the nearest available lamp. “That bathroom is disgusting, Joe.”

 

Joe felt every muscle in his body relax, and he realized that he had been holding his breath. “You never complained before,” he snapped in relief, making his way into the living room with Richie right behind him.

 

“I was being polite. But that mold is about to achieve critical mass. Do you have something to beat it off with if it attacks?”

 

“Try these,” said Joe grumpily, tossing Methos’ damp clothes back to him.

 

Methos caught them, grinning, and promptly spread them over the back of Joe’s favorite chair.

 

Richie shut and locked the door behind them and drew the chain. “So what was all that about?”

 

Methos shrugged and moved to the windows, lowering the blinds. “Just making sure we didn’t have company.”

 

Richie gave him a sour look. “Thanks, geezer. That explains everything.” He shoved his hand into his bag and pulled out another hash brown. “I’m hungry. You guys want anything?”

 

“You’re _hungry_?” said Methos in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. “You ate everything in that place that wasn’t nailed down or on fire.”

 

“I’m a growing boy,” said Richie, swallowing in time to accommodate a yawn.

 

“You’re a bottomless pit,” retorted Methos.

 

Joe laughed softly. The old man had been trying too hard ever since they had left the barge.

 

“Look who’s talking. I’m not the one who scarfed down four Big Breakfasts,” said Richie with a grin, tossing his bag to the coffee table and stretching out on the sofa. “Dibs.”

 

“Isn’t he cute?” growled Methos to Joe. “Don’t you just want to hug the entrails out of him?”

 

“First things first,” said Joe wearily. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand much longer; the rush of energy from the food was wearing off fast. “Sleep now. Entrails later.”

 

Methos’ hand was under his elbow instantly, and Joe realized that he must look as bad as he felt. The Immortal’s hazel eyes darkened in concern. “No problem. Entrails keep,” said Methos with a faint smile.

 

“You want fries with that?” mumbled Richie, already half asleep.

 

“Say goodnight, Junior,” retorted Methos as they made their way to the bedroom. There was no response, and the older Immortal snorted, fixing his keen gaze on Joe.

 

Joe felt himself being scrutinized, and made an effort to straighten, to shift some of his weight away from Methos. He couldn’t. He was as tired as he could remember being in years, and his legs hurt like hell. He sagged against Methos heavily as they reached the bed, and the Immortal eased him onto it.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Joe gruffly. “I’m fine.”

 

“Convincing,” remarked Methos with succinct sarcasm. “Can you manage?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’m getting myself a beer. You need anything?”

 

Joe reached down to untie his shoes, chuckling. “You’ve really got this nanny thing down, don’t you? You’re hired. Take one of those extra blankets out to Rich, will you?” He gestured to the blankets on the end of the bed.

 

“You want me to _tuck him in_?” demanded Methos, eyes widening. “I don’t _do_ tuck-’em-in, Joe.”

 

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

 

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” growled Methos, snatching up one of the blankets. He disappeared, muttering under his breath.

 

Joe chuckled softly. Mr. Death. Sooo big and bad.

 

He removed his shoes and stopped, unable to proceed further. The events of the past twelve hours washed over him like a wave. Étienne. Shapiro. MacLeod. _Lucius_. Oh, God Almighty.

 

The memory of the first time Joe had visited the museum at European Headquarters played before his closed eyes. He’d been a Watcher for only six months. The historian in charge of the museum had been the first person to tell him about Lucius, and the man had taken great delight in relating the story in hideous detail. He had even pulled Gabriel’s silver platters out of the vault. Those platters were, then and now, still stained with Gabriel’s blood, the blood of a Watcher who had died in agony nine hundred years before. Lucius’ final victim...or so they had thought then. To this very day, when Joe closed his eyes, he could still see those platters.

 

Joe rubbed his face, every fiber in his body screaming for sleep. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the warm touch of a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Methos gazing down at him with an anxious, almost fearful expression on his face and a beer can clutched in his free hand. His coat was hanging over his arm.

 

“Joe?”

 

“I’m fine,” said Joe hastily. “I’m just tired.”

 

Methos knelt beside him, and Joe could see the toll the past few hours had taken clearly written in his friend’s pale face. “Tell me.”

 

Joe shook his head wearily, his gaze falling to the coat. “_You_ tell _me_. Expecting a cold front?”

 

“I chill easily.”

 

Joe gave him a wry look. “I guess that arsenal you carry around has a warming effect, huh?”

 

Methos’ eyes narrowed. “Arsenal?”

 

“Keane’s Watcher filed a very interesting report. Don’t worry, I did some creative editing.”

 

Methos muttered what Joe assumed was an obscenity.

 

“Language, son,” Joe said with a grin. His grin faded when Methos’ answering smile was less than genuine. “Expecting company?”

 

“No. Not _expecting_ it.” Methos spoke in a subdued tone.

 

“But...?”

 

“But I haven’t lasted five thousand years by taking anything for granted. Now _you_ tell _me_.”

 

Joe sighed. “Just been a hell of a day, that’s all. I keep seeing those damned platters....”

 

Methos flinched visibly, and Joe, realizing what he had just said, cursed himself thoroughly.

 

“Sorry, Adam. Sorry.”

 

“For what?” Methos’ voice was very quiet.

 

“I know he was your friend once,” he said softly, his eyes searching his friend’s face.

 

“Once.” Methos’ gaze drifted away for a moment, then back to Joe’s face. “Do you mind if I crash in here?” He gestured to the recliner in the corner of the bedroom. “The kid’s a real window-rattler.”

 

Joe managed, somehow, to suppress his grin. Once this guy got on the nanny track there was no derailing him. “Yeah, sure. Help yourself.”

 

Methos nodded and rose, opening his beer and kicking off his sneakers. He draped his coat over the back of the chair and settled into it; then took a few sips of his beer and leaned back with eyes closed.

 

Joe managed, with difficulty, to undress and remove his prostheses. He maneuvered himself under the covers, then swore softly, wishing he had thought to close the blinds. He hated sleeping in broad daylight.

 

Methos suddenly rose from his chair and headed for the window. “Mind if I close these?” he asked guilelessly. Without waiting for Joe’s answer, he closed the blinds. The room darkened to a comforting twilight.

 

Joe glared at Methos as he crossed the room, propping himself up on his elbows. All right, enough was enough. He drew the line at mind reading. “Don’t bury yourself in the part, pal.”

 

“Excuse me?” Methos raised his eyebrows at Joe over his beer can.

 

“You’ve out-nannied me, okay? Lose the spoonful of sugar.”

 

“But it helps the medicine go down,” said Methos with a grin, taking another swig of his beer as he resettled himself in the recliner.

 

Joe snatched up the last of the extra blankets from the foot of the bed and tossed it into Methos’ lap, laughing. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

 

Methos chuckled, set his beer can on the floor, and drew the blanket over himself, leaning back comfortably.

 

Joe let his head sink into his pillow and closed his eyes, fending off the image of Gabriel’s silver platters with every shred of his imagination. If he could just think of something else, he _might_ be able to sleep. If he could just turn these damn alarms off.... If he could just shake this feeling in his gut that something was coming up from behind him....

 

Joe was asleep two minutes after his head hit the pillow.

 

***

 

 

Lucius frowned as the music reached his ears. This twentieth-century obsession with Mozart was appalling. The classical radio stations of Europe seemed determined to inflict the inane screechings and caterwauls of that little Austrian upon Lucius at every opportunity. The annoyance of it had distracted him from his reading; it was intolerable. Milton deserved a far better accompaniment.

 

The music instantly ceased, and was replaced a moment later with the first Brandenburg concerto. Lucius glanced up to see Nathan making the appropriate volume adjustments to the stereo. Lucius nodded appreciatively.

 

“Has the delivery been made?”

 

“It has, Master. I saw to it personally.”

 

“It has been a while since such a delivery was made in the appropriate manner,” mused Lucius, leaning back in his chair.

 

Nathan nodded his agreement. “Too long, Master.”

 

“Did you remain in the vicinity long enough to observe any reaction?”

 

“A great deal of activity ensued when the package was discovered, Master. I heard someone scream. Security was intensified tenfold around Watcher Headquarters within five minutes of the delivery.”

 

“It would seem that the message, as well as the package, has been received,” murmured Lucius in satisfaction. He raised his gaze to Nathan. “And the arrangements for this evening’s business?”

 

“Are made and will be carried out at full dark, Master.”

 

“Excellent,” said Lucius with a pleased smile and a nod, wishing to communicate to Nathan that he had done well.

 

Nathan bowed his head slightly in gratitude.

 

Lucius stared out the window, ignoring the skyline of Paris, his gaze riveted upon the setting sun as it made its way through a blanket of orange-red clouds on the horizon.

 

“It will be dark _soon_,” he whispered fiercely.

 

“Yes, Master,” said Nathan with satisfaction.

 

“_‘From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer’s day; and with the setting sun dropped from the zenith like a falling star.’_ ”

 

“Yes,” murmured Nathan in understanding.

 

Lucius paused for a moment, reveling in the moment of heart-racing, anticipatory joy—and in Nathan’s unique understanding of the significance of that moment. He sighed deeply. “Soon, Marcus. You will fall very soon.”

 

***

 

 

Joe awoke with a strangled gasp and forced himself upright in his bed to the sound of pounding and screaming nearby. It was dark, and Joe groped for a sense of time and place. He looked at the clock; it was only just after six. Why the hell was it so dark? Then he remembered Methos drawing the blinds. For a split second he considered the possibility that he was not quite awake, that the noise which had awakened him and still beat in his ears was part of some forgotten nightmare...until he saw that Methos was already awake and standing in the open door, leaning against the doorjamb and breathing hard.

 

“_Dawson! Dawson! Open the door, goddamn you! Open the door!”_

 

Joe pushed the covers away and reached for his wheelchair, struggling to recognize the voice. He couldn’t place it. He gasped in surprise as Methos whirled and leaned down, grabbing him by the arm.

 

“Don’t move from this room. Do you understand?”

 

Joe found himself barely able to recognize his friend’s voice either. Before he could respond, however, Methos moved to the recliner, pulled something from his coat, and sprinted down the hallway toward the living room.

 

“Screw that,” growled Joe to himself, struggling into his clothes. “Okay, pal, that’s it. You just crossed the nanny-line.”

 

_“Dawson, I know you’re there! Open the damned door or I’ll kick it in! Dawson_!”

 

Joe heard footsteps running toward him in the hall, and looked up to see Richie run into the room and close the door behind him.

 

“Nice wake-up call,” Richie whispered breathlessly. “Methos says to stay here.”

 

“Methos can stick it where the sun don’t shine,” snapped Joe, swinging himself into his chair. “Open that door.”

 

“Shhh,” hissed Richie, motioning him to silence.

 

“Who is it?” Methos’ voice was clear and even, and the shouting and banging stopped instantly.

 

“Pierson?” There was a pause. “It’s Jack Shapiro. Let me in.”

 

“Shapiro,” sighed Joe in relief. He started his chair toward the door, but Richie caught hold of it by the armrests.

 

“Wait, Joe. Wait,” he whispered. “Please.”

 

“What do you want, Shapiro?” Methos’ tone was less than pleasant.

 

“I want to come in. Are you going to open this door, or am I going to kick it in?”

 

“Kick away,” returned Methos coolly. “I imagine that the police are already on their way, and having them catch you in the act of breaking and entering would bloody well make my day.”

 

“Great,” hissed Joe. “How the hell are we going to get any information out of him if that Immortal idiot gets him even more pissed off than he already is? Rich, open the door. Now!”

 

The sounds of a body being thrown against his door, and a barrage of obscenities echoed through the apartment.

 

“The Malicious Damage Act of 1849 includes apartment houses,” observed Methos in a conversational tone.

 

Joe swore softly. Great. Just great. He’d probably get thrown out of here in the morning, and if that door was damaged he could just kiss his security deposit goodbye. To say nothing of the fact that the cops might start asking some very inconvenient questions. Joe grabbed his cane and swiped it in the vicinity of Richie’s shins.

 

Richie dodged skillfully. “Hey! All right! All right. But if that guy pulls anything—”

 

“Then I’ll activate my Richie Ryan homing beacon and decoder ring,” snapped Joe, as Richie opened the door with a heavy sigh of obvious reluctance. Damn these kids.

 

_“Dawson!”_ howled Shapiro, continuing to throw himself against the door. _“I hear you, Dawson! I know you’re in there!”_

            Joe moved his chair at top speed toward the living room. “Well, bully for you, Jack,” he muttered to himself. “We hear you, too. I guess the whole effin’ building knows _you’re_ here.”

 

Joe rolled into the living room just as Methos yanked open the door, sending Shapiro sprawling to the floor. Methos closed the door behind him. Shapiro scrambled to his feet and stared wildly about in the semi-darkness, breathing heavily.

 

“Adam, hit the lights, will you?” asked Joe softly.

 

The lights went on, and Shapiro fixed wide eyes on Joe. Then, with no warning but an inarticulate howl, he flung himself in Joe’s direction with outstretched arms and clutching hands.

 

Joe gasped involuntarily and leaned back, but Shapiro never made it to within three feet of him. Before the man took two steps, Methos seized Shapiro’s left arm, twisted it up behind him, and rammed him into the door with the barrel of his gun pressed to the back of Shapiro’s neck.

 

“If you try that again,” hissed Methos, with a feral expression that made Joe draw a sharp breath, “I will shatter your skull and scatter whatever passes for your brains over as wide an area as possible.”

 

Joe realized his jaw was hanging slack and hastily shut his mouth. _Well, so much for the mild-mannered Adam Pierson shtick. _Joe released the breath he had held slowly, observing that Shapiro showed no signs of attempting to break free. On the contrary, he stood very quietly, his only movement caused by his heavy breathing.

 

“Let him go,” said Joe to Methos softly.

 

Methos didn’t move. Joe could see the taut control in every muscle, and gentled his voice even further. “Adam, please let him go.”

 

In response, Methos uttered something like a snarl, and pulled Shapiro away from the door. He shoved the Watcher into a chair at the opposite end of the room from Joe and backed away, his aim never wavering, until he stood beside Joe’s chair.

 

Joe found himself having to take a steadying, deep breath as he watched him. He had never seen his friend like this before. Methos was like ice: cold, unreachable...and lethal. Joe had been a soldier, and he knew this look well, but he had never thought to ever see it on Methos. He wondered briefly if this were the face that the villagers of the Bronze Age had called Death. If so, he understood why.

 

Joe turned his attention to Shapiro, who was glowering at them both and rubbing his left arm. His suit was crumpled, his hair uncombed and he looked as if he hadn’t showered or shaved in a couple days. “Hi, Jack. How’s it going?”

 

“You bastard,” hissed Shapiro, leaning forward in his chair. “You murdering bastard.”

 

Joe recoiled despite himself, struggling for words. Getting any information from Shapiro suddenly seemed less important, to say nothing of less likely. How could you communicate with a man in the final stages of a grief-induced meltdown?

 

“Jack,” said Joe, striving for an even, soothing tone. “You know I had nothing to do with David’s death. I—”

 

“I’m not talking about David!” shouted Shapiro. “I’m talking about Étienne!”

 

Joe stopped cold, his thoughts racing frantically. Étienne?

 

“What’s happened?” asked Methos with icy composure.

 

Shapiro’s eyes widened and he stared from Methos to Joe and back again. “You don’t know? No one from Headquarters has called?”

 

“No one’s called,” said Joe unevenly. “Damn it, Shapiro, what is it? What’s happened to Étienne?”

 

“He was delivered to Headquarters about two hours ago,” snarled Shapiro. “In pieces about four inches square. On these _beautiful_ little sixteenth-century silver platters.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Joe. “Oh, sweet Jesus.” He felt Methos’ hand rest on his shoulder, but didn’t know whether it was for Joe’s comfort or his own. Joe couldn’t look at him. All he could see were silver platters.

 

“Why didn’t you listen to him, Dawson? Why didn’t you go with him? He’s _dead_ because of you! And not quickly—oh, no, Dawson, not quickly. The forensic team says that some of those parts were chopped out of him while he was alive. Alive! Do you _know_ what you’ve done?”

 

“That’s enough!” barked Methos savagely as Joe buried his face in his hands. “Whatever’s happened has nothing to do with Joe, and you know it. This was happening to Watchers centuries before Joe Dawson was born.”

 

“I warned you that it was happening again! You ignored me! And this is the result. That boy was like a son to me, Dawson. So help me God, you are going to pay—”

 

“If anyone pays for this, it won’t be Joe,” said Methos in the same steely tone. “Start talking, Shapiro. How did you find out that Lucius was alive?”

 

Shapiro laughed hysterically. “You want to discuss _research_? My God, man, Lucius’ Rampage is on again! Watchers are being dissected alive, and you want to talk about _research_?”

 

“Is there some reason you don’t wish to reveal your sources?” asked Methos in a soft, menacing tone.

 

Joe’s head shot up. “Wait. Wait, Adam.” He drew a shaky breath. “Jack. Tell us, please. It’s important. How did you know Lucius was alive? Why has he only begun to kill again now?”

 

“Because he’s only just escaped,” snarled Shapiro. “Use your head, Dawson!”

 

Joe became aware that Methos’ grip on his shoulder had become painfully tight, and he looked up in alarm. The control in the man’s face was still there. Barely.

 

“What is your source for this information, Shapiro?” asked Methos in a tone of barely leashed violence.

 

“Escaped? Escaped from where? How do you know all this?”

 

“What the hell does the ‘where’ matter? All that matters is that he was captured and imprisoned after he killed Gabriel.”

 

“Imprisoned by whom? Damn it, Jack, you’re not telling us anything!”

 

“Including how he knows this,” snarled Methos, taking a step forward. “None of this is recorded in any Chronicle, or in any Watcher records concerning Lucius.”

 

“You think I’m _inventing_ this?” cried Shapiro, leaping to his feet. “Go to Headquarters, Pierson. Go see what’s left of Étienne if you don’t believe me!”

 

“We’re not discussing my beliefs,” returned Methos in a deadly tone. “I want to know the source of your information. Now.” He lifted the gun.

 

“Adam, back off,” murmured Joe, wondering how much influence he could wield over Methos in this state.

 

Methos’ posture didn’t change. “Your source!”

 

“An Immortal,” blurted Shapiro, trying to back away, hands up in a supplicating gesture.

 

“I surmised that much,” sneered Methos, his aim following Shapiro as he moved. “What Immortal?”

 

“His name was Joshua,” Shapiro stammered. “Zwirner found him.”

 

“Joshua?” Methos drew a ragged breath.

 

“Joshua? _The_ Joshua of Jerusalem?” said Joe in amazement, knowing from the look on Methos’ face that he had known this man, but unable to spare his friend more than a glance. “Jack, we’ve been looking for Joshua for almost a thousand years! I’ve never seen any report—”

 

“There was no point in a report,” said Shapiro, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. “He died a few days after he was found.”

 

“Died?” Methos started to laugh; it was a frightening sound. “_Died_, Shapiro? How convenient for you.”

 

“Died,” repeated Joe grimly, beginning to see now which way the wind was blowing. My God. Just how far had Shapiro been willing to go to investigate the legend of Lucius? Would he have killed to further his obsession? Joe stared into Shapiro’s wild eyes, feeling the answer in his gut. Christ. Now if he could just keep Methos from killing the son of a bitch....

 

“I don’t know who took his head,” said Shapiro shakily, now clearly frightened.

 

“What the hell is this, Jack?” Joe wheeled his chair next to Methos, hoping his proximity would discourage any violence. “What were you doing talking to Joshua about Lucius or anything else?”

 

“I didn’t. _Zwirner_ did. Joshua came to Zwirner. He told him he knew about the Watchers. He said that he came to warn us that Lucius was still alive, that he’d escaped.”

 

“You’re lying,” said Methos softly, menacingly. He took another step closer to Shapiro, deliberately putting Joe behind him.

 

Shapiro stared at him. “N-no,” he stuttered. “I’m not. He told Zwirner everything I’ve told you and....”

 

“What did you do to him to make him talk to you, Shapiro?”

 

“You’re crazy! Joe, he’s crazy!”

 

“I don’t think so,” said Joe grimly.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” The pitch of Shapiro’s voice rose into a semi-hysterical squeak. He backed himself up against the wall, sweating and panting like a trapped animal, then cleared his throat and assumed a more confident stance. “Lucius Germanicus is hunting us again!  All that matters now is finding him and stopping him!”

 

“I want to know what’s going on, Jack,” said Joe sharply. “Right now! What have you done?”

 

“What have I done? I’ve tried to save the lives of Watchers! If someone had listened to me earlier Zwirner and Étienne might be alive now,” snarled Shapiro. “Urquhart believes me. He’s put me in charge of finding Lucius.”

 

Methos laughed dangerously. “Yes. Now that I believe.”

 

“You owe me, Dawson! You are going to help me track down this monster and kill him, or—”

 

“Or what?” hissed Methos. “Or what, Shapiro?” Before Joe could react, Methos had pinned Shapiro to the wall with the barrel of his gun under his chin. “You are in no position to be threatening Joe or anyone else. You’re not touching him!”

 

Shapiro writhed and gasped, terrified into silence.

 

“Adam!” Joe rarely commanded, but he was fully capable of it when necessary. “Turn him loose!”

 

For two heartbeats Joe held his breath, wondering if he would really see Jack Shapiro’s brains blown out in front of him. He had never considered Methos—_his_ Methos—capable of that. That was more pedestal crap, of course. Joe knew better than most that anyone was capable of violence if the right buttons were pushed. The fact that _he_ seemed to be one of Methos’ buttons scared the hell out of him—but there you are. There was probably stuff about Joe that scared Methos, although seeing the man holding a gun under Shapiro’s chin with a thousand years of rage in his face made that difficult for Joe to imagine. At the end of the second heartbeat, Joe gave up, and braced himself for the explosion of the shot.

 

But instead, Methos uttered something like a soft groan and flung himself away from Shapiro as if mere physical contact with the man burned him. He returned to Joe’s side, averting his face, and lay his hand on Joe’s shoulder, breathing raspily. Joe felt Methos’ hand shaking.

 

Shapiro stumbled to the door, wrenched it open, and fled without another word.

 

A few seconds of silence hung in the air as Joe struggled to comprehend what had happened. He looked up at Methos, but his friend was still looking away. Joe touched his arm. “Adam.”

 

Methos turned toward him, and Joe caught his breath. There was enough grief in his friend’s face for all of his five thousand years; there were tears on his face. “Sorry, Joe. I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?” asked Joe mildly. “I haven’t had this much fun since MacLeod threw him in that coffin.”

 

Methos laughed humorlessly and sank to knees beside Joe’s chair, dropping the gun. “I nearly did it, Joe.”

 

“You _didn’t_ do it,” said Joe quietly. “And if anyone ever asked for it, Shapiro did.”

 

“I wanted to kill him. I could almost _feel_ the heat of his blood running over my skin. I _wanted_ to feel it, to taste it. I wanted to rip him apart.” Methos’ voice was no more than a harsh whisper.

 

Joe drew a shaky breath. God Almighty. Was this what he dealt with every day? How did he keep from going crazy? No. Don’t go there now. Later. “Yeah, you wanted all that. And you still didn’t do it.”

 

Methos met his gaze for a moment, then nodded and wiped his face. “We’re in trouble, Joe.”

 

“So what else is new?”

 

Richie poked his head into the room. “Is it soup yet?” he asked softly, his sober expression clearly conveying that he had heard everything.

 

“Oh, God,” growled Methos, recovering his composure. “I forgot about Junior. Get the door, will you, kid?”

 

“I live to serve.” Richie crossed the room to swat the door closed. “So what do we do now?”

 

“We leave,” said Methos grimly. “Pack a bag, Joe. Now.” He disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with his coat and shoes. He sat on the couch and shoved his feet into his damp sneakers, then glanced over at Joe and Richie impatiently. “Damn it, you two, move!”

 

“Whoa,” said Joe unevenly. “Just hold it a minute. We need to think this through.”

 

“Think later.” Methos finished tying his shoes and put on his coat, then scooped up his gun and shoved it into one of the inside pockets. “Listen to me, Joe. Étienne was taken from your doorstep and is now lying in pieces at Headquarters in the loving care of a Watcher forensics team. Lucius knows this building. He’s probably had it under observation for some time.”

 

“Shit,” said Richie very softly.

 

“Observation,” repeated Joe faintly, groping for rational thought. “You think—”

 

“I think we’re leaving _now_. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know in the car. But we are _going_.”

 

***

 

 

Lucius watched the growing darkness outside his window contentedly.

 

_Yes. Yes! Full dark at last_.

 

As if in response to his thought, Nathan’s signature touched him, only a moment before the whisper of sound that always heralded his arrival. Lucius turned, smiling.

 

“It is time to leave, Nathan.”

 

Nathan bowed, smiling in return, and left the room.

 

Lucius heard the sound of booted feet as Nathan’s chosen band of six followed him through the empty corridors toward the street. They were the most dangerous of the scum he employed, and the most obedient. They were perfect for this task; Nathan had chosen well. Nathan always chose well.

 

Lucius anticipated no difficulty. The advantage of surprise was theirs, and only one among their enemies posed a serious threat. Lucius laughed softly. Foolish, Marcus. Foolish to surround oneself with the weak. More foolish still to become attached to them. One would think that Marcus’ experience in Constantinople would have taught him that if nothing else.

 

It would not do, however, to make assumptions without the possession of fact. Perhaps these people meant nothing to him. This would, of course, dilute and abbreviate the pleasure of the experience, but there would be a certain compensatory satisfaction in knowing that his previous efforts had not been in vain, in knowing that he had rendered Marcus Gaius afraid to love.

 

Patience. All these questions would be answered soon; all these pleasures enjoyed to their fullest this night, and for many nights to come. Patience. He had learned patience very well indeed. He had waited nine hundred years for this night. He need wait only a few hours more. Yes. He was certain he had patience enough for that.

 

***

 

 

Joe had done some fast packing in his life, but nothing to equal this. Fifteen minutes after Shapiro’s departure, Methos had hold of Joe’s two overstuffed suitcases and was shepherding him out the door.

 

“Shit,” sighed Joe in sudden realization. “The chair.”

 

“I’ll bring it down,” said Richie, shrugging into his coat. “You two go on down and bring the car around.”

 

“Watch your back,” said Methos tautly.

 

“Are you kidding? That chair is a lethal weapon in the right hands. And I won’t even mention the cane.”

 

“Smart move,” growled Joe, letting Methos angle his shoulder under his left hand and whacking Richie across the backside with the unmentionable. “_Don’t_ mention it. Just get your ass down to the car without getting into any trouble, okay? Here. Lock up when you’re done.”

 

Richie took the keys and the whack with a good-natured grin and disappeared inside.

 

“Anything else?” snapped Methos impatiently. “Remember to turn the oven off? Close the windows? Leave a note for the milkman?”

 

“Ring for the damn elevator, smart-ass.”

 

“I’ve already rung. Do me a favor, Joe, and cultivate a sense of urgency.”

 

The elevator’s soft chime cut into Methos’ last words, and Joe bit off a retort as Methos left him behind to glance into the car. “Okay,” said Methos quietly.

 

Joe snorted, unnerved and trying not to let his imagination run away with him. At this rate he’d be seeing Lucius squatting behind every lamppost in Paris. He joined Methos in the lift and pressed the button for the lobby. “Getting a little carried away, aren’t we? Not that I don’t appreciate—”

 

“No, Joe. You don’t. You can’t.”

 

Joe took one look at the barely healed devastation in his friend’s face and flinched inwardly. Methos’ memory of Lucius was a living, painful reality for him; whatever Joe knew or thought he knew about this nightmare was a drop in Methos’ ocean. “No, I don’t,” he said softly. “But I want to.”

 

Methos gave him a startled look, then laughed raggedly as the doors slid open. “Yeah. I know, Joe.” He glanced about the empty lobby, then offered Joe his shoulder.

 

Joe leaned on it, unable to stop himself from checking out the corners himself. _Damn._ _All we have to do is get to the car. Then we put some safe distance between us and Paris. Between us and Lucius. We get some breathing room. Some time to think..._

 

Methos pulled the door open and passed through it first, checked the street, then flashed a strained smile as Joe joined him. “Shall we?”

 

“You know, this is giving me a fresh appreciation for what Immortals must feel like.” Joe moved slowly down the empty street at his friend’s side.

 

“Oh?” Methos glanced at him inquiringly.

 

“Always on guard. Always being watched.”

 

Methos grinned. “Well, some of us, at any rate. What do you think of it?”

 

“I think it sucks,” grumbled Joe, his eyes scanning the street as they neared the corner.

 

Methos laughed hollowly; Joe could feel his friend’s muscles tense as they turned the corner and started down the narrow side street toward the garage. It was poorly lit, and lined with gaping black doorways and long shadows. Joe knew instantly that this had been a mistake. There was no threat that he could see or identify, and yet they hadn’t gone more than half a dozen yards when their pace began to slow and their conversation died away.

 

“Not good,” muttered Joe. He had walked through this alley in perfect confidence virtually every night since he had moved into the building, but tonight he saw movement and menace in every shadow. Methos shot him a questioning look.

 

_Get a hold of yourself, Dawson_.

 

And yet...some indefinable instinct, long unused, raised the hairs at the back of his neck, tingled his skin, quickened his breath and pulse. He hadn’t survived Vietnam by ignoring that instinct.

 

He grabbed Methos by the arm and hauled him back toward the main street. “There’s somebody—”

 

A figure barreled out of the shadows, clamping a black-gloved hand over Methos’ mouth. Joe’s bags went flying as Methos struggled in his attacker’s grasp. Methos managed to get an elbow into the man’s ribs before the mortal wrenched his right arm up behind him, pulling him out of Joe’s grasp. Unfortunately for the stranger, this tactic left one of Methos’ hands free, and before Joe could draw breath or move, that hand held a dagger. Methos thrust the blade over his right shoulder into the shoulder of his attacker, twisting free as the man howled in pain and staggered back.

 

Methos swung toward Joe and drew a sharp breath as if to cry out in warning, but it was too late. Joe gasped as an arm hooked around his throat and yanked him back, throwing him off balance. He heard his cane rattle against the pavement as his hands tried desperately to loosen the grip around his throat.

 

Joe saw Methos get a fresh grip on his dagger and spring toward him, only to be blocked by two new assailants—assailants with swords. The man he had wounded came up from behind him, snarling incoherently and drawing his sword, while another appeared from the shadows beside him, holding what looked like a hypodermic needle.

 

“Behind you,” rasped Joe, gasping for air.

 

Methos shot one look over his shoulder, then back to Joe. His eyes widened and his lips parted slightly. His face drained of what little color it had. “Nathan,” he whispered.

 

The strangling arm around Joe’s throat slipped down to pinion his chest. He instantly felt the sting of a sharp blade slicing oh-so-shallowly across his throat, and the warm trickle of his blood dripping from the wound. Joe clenched his teeth and fought to keep the pain from his face.

 

“Drop your weapon, Marcus Gaius,” said Nathan with pleasant menace.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Methos’ gaze locked with Joe’s for one moment. Joe could read nothing but pure shock in the man’s expression, but he could have sworn that Methos’ fingers loosened, slightly, their grip on the hilt of the dagger.

 

“No—” Joe stopped and gasped as the knife began its slow journey across his throat again.

 

“Do you believe I will not kill him, Marcus?” purred Nathan softly. “I cannot imagine you to be capable of so profound an error in judgment.”

 

Joe, struggling to think clearly through a haze of pain and panic, realized that the four men surrounding Methos had frozen in place, their eyes fixed on Nathan. Waiting. Waiting...for a signal? Now was Methos’ chance. He should fight, or run—now. Methos knew that. He _must_ know that. What the hell was he doing?

 

Methos’ fingers went limp, and his dagger slipped through them to fall, end over end, to the street.

 

Joe watched it fall in numb horror. It seemed to take forever for the damned thing to reach the ground, and when it did, it clattered to the pavement so softly that Joe could barely hear it.

 

Joe stared at it as it lay there, barely aware that Nathan’s knife no longer touched his skin. Methos couldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have just thrown away his last chance to escape on a slim to none chance of keeping Joe alive. This guy was going to kill him anyway; Methos _knew_ that. He’d blown his last chance. Joe tore his gaze away from the knife and raised it to Methos’ face, but still couldn’t read his expression—until he saw him stiffen, and felt Nathan do the same.

 

Another Immortal? It had to be; Methos’ expression was unmistakable. Who—?

 

Joe felt Nathan begin to turn, then sensed a breath of air and the reverberation of dull impact. Without warning he found himself released and fell to the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Nathan fell on top of him, unconscious; his head was bleeding profusely.

 

Joe pushed himself away from Nathan, then started violently as a pair of slender, strong arms encircled him from behind and dragged him further away from the prone figure and into the deep shadows of a doorway. Craning his neck upward in the darkness, Joe realized that the arms belonged to a young woman...an _apparently_ young woman.

 

The man holding the hypodermic, obviously realizing that the balance of advantage had shifted, shouted something in a language Joe didn’t understand and came at Methos wildly. Methos turned, seized the wrist that held the needle, and, without expression, twisted the arm, driving the man to his knees. The man screamed again as the arm snapped, and he huddled on the ground, moaning.

 

Methos released the wrist and tossed the man aside, scooping up his dagger and drawing his sword. He moved quickly to his left, turning so that the swordsman who had stood beside the man with the hypodermic was no longer at his back. The man Methos had wounded in the first moments of the attack had shifted his blade to his left hand and rejoined his companions. Methos faced his three remaining attackers as they advanced, somewhat more cautiously than their companion had.

 

Joe tried to rise, but the woman held him to her with surprising strength. “What the hell are you doing? Let me go! He needs help.”

 

“Help him by staying out of harm’s way...and out of his.” The voice was firm and tinged with amusement. “He looks like he’s doing just fine to me.”

 

Methos shot a glance in the direction of the doorway, obviously unable to see either occupant.

 

“He’s all right, _aba_,” called the woman reassuringly.

 

“Keep him that way,” commanded Methos grimly, assuming a battle stance with sword and dagger as the mortals closed in.

 

“For God’s sake, help him,” gasped Joe involuntarily, as the wounded mortal lunged at Methos.

 

To Joe’s astonishment, Methos parried the blow with little effort, and sliced upward with the dagger. The man jumped back, screaming and clutching his abdomen; blood oozed through his fingers. He staggered back to lean against the wall of the alley, then slipped into a sitting position, groaning.

 

“You’re kidding, right?” said the woman drily.

 

“There are still _four_ of them,” snapped Joe, watching the man with the hypodermic as he nursed his broken arm and struggled to rise.

 

“Your point being?”

 

“Dammit, lady, let go of me!” Joe struggled against her restraint as Methos fended off a series of energetic and increasingly effective attacks, backing up slowly and drawing his attackers away from Joe’s hiding place and toward the street.

 

He was trying to clear the way to the garage, Joe realized angrily. _Damn him, does he think I’m leaving him here? That arrogant son of a—_

 

A loud cry of pain and a snarled curse momentarily drew Joe’s attention away from the swordplay. Twisting in his captor’s embrace, he peered to his left and caught his breath as Nathan pushed himself off the ground into a kneeling position behind Methos, his face twisted in pain and hatred. The man snatched up his knife from the pavement beside him.

 

Joe struggled to reach his gun, then stopped cold. No. They were too close, and the alley too narrow. One miss and a ricochet and Joe would wind up hitting Methos—which was probably why Methos hadn’t pulled his gun in the first place. God damn it to hell! He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but hesitated for a fraction of a second, knowing that the distraction could be as deadly for his friend as the threat looming behind him. Before he could make a decision, he was nearly deafened by a loud, peculiarly pitched whistle from the woman who

held him.

 

As if on cue, Methos whirled, locked his gaze on Nathan, flung his dagger into the man’s chest and turned back to parry the next blows of the attacking swordsmen before they could so much as press their advantage.

 

Joe stared in stunned disbelief as Nathan crumpled to the ground with the hilt of Methos’ dagger protruding from his chest. He didn’t doubt for a moment that the blade had gone straight through Nathan’s heart. “God Almighty,” Joe whispered, his gaze returning to Methos.

 

By the time Joe had recovered enough to be able to observe anything rationally, Methos had drawn the two remaining swordsmen to a position directly across the alley from Joe’s doorway. Joe could see Methos’ face now, and he was unrecognizable in his battle rage. His eyes were dark and wild, his expression taut with concentrated ferocity. Joe wondered somewhat dazedly where ‘Adam’ was inside all that fury.

 

And he wondered how much longer the man could last. Every movement betrayed his exhaustion. Joe realized that from the beginning Methos had fought a defensive fight, encouraging his opponents to attack him, drawing them toward him in an effort both to capitalize on their mistakes and to lead them away from Joe’s escape route. Unfortunately, the two remaining attackers seemed to be making very few mistakes. They pressed Methos hard as the Immortal backed away toward the street, coming within feet of Nathan’s lifeless body. The man with the hypodermic, his broken arm dangling uselessly, had assumed a position behind them, obviously waiting for his chance.

 

Methos spared a glance in Joe’s direction. “Go,” he gasped, flinching as one of his opponents’ blades sliced lightly through the sleeve of his coat and into his forearm. “Now.” His sleeve was instantly stained with blood.

 

Joe felt himself being hauled roughly to his feet. “What the hell?”

 

“Come,” ordered the woman peremptorily, pulling his arm over her shoulder.

 

Joe pushed her away, nearly fell, and leaned against the wall for support. “I’m not leaving,” he hissed furiously. “If you won’t help him, I will.” He started making his way toward Methos, leaning against the alley wall.

 

“He said to go and we are going.” She seized Joe’s arm and stared up at him with an astonishing amount of menace for so small a woman. “Even if I have to knock you out and carry you out of here.”

 

“Try it, lady,” growled Joe. “Just try it.” He’d never hit a woman in his life, but at that moment Joe felt up to the task. He turned to push her away again, but froze as he caught sight of a shadow hurtling headlong in their direction from the far end of the alley.

 

Before Joe could so much as draw another breath, the woman shoved him aside, turned, drew her sword, and parried a sword thrust that arced far too close to Joe for comfort. The attacker shifted position and tried again; Joe could feel the breeze as the steel sliced through the air towards him, and drew back instinctively, hugging the wall.

 

The woman was instantly between them, blocking the blow with her blade. With one twist, she sent the man’s sword flying to rattle on the pavement several feet away and ran her sword through the man’s gut up to the hilt. She yanked it out again, watching the man tumble to the ground with a grim expression not entirely devoid of sorrow. She turned to Joe, breathing hard. “You are coming with me _now_.”

 

Joe wrenched his gaze from her to settle it on Methos. Joe could see that his friend was barely on his feet; every other blow was another wound, and every instinct Joe possessed was screaming at him to get to Methos’ side as quickly as possible. “No.”

 

A moment later, Joe found himself flat on his back, not quite certain of how he had gotten there. Stunned, he struggled for breath as the woman wrapped her arms under his and around his chest and started to drag him toward the garage and away from Methos.

 

Methos.

 

Joe blinked, trying to focus his eyes on the other end of the alley. Methos had backed up to Nathan’s body, and was attempting to step over it. Joe could see the man was shaking with exhaustion, even at this distance. He could barely keep his balance _without_ impediments in his path. He was going to fall, and those bastards were going to have him, and there was nothing Joe could do about it.

 

“Let go of me!” shouted Joe, lashing out wildly. “They’re killing him, for God’s sake! Let go—”

 

Methos went down, falling over Nathan’s legs and onto his back with two swords at his throat. The man with the hypodermic leapt forward.

 

_“No!”_ howled Joe, swinging at the woman holding him, only to realize that she was no longer there. Struggling to a sitting position, he saw her running at full pelt toward Methos. There was no way she could get there in time.

 

An unidentifiable object of considerable mass swung out of the shadows, catching one of the two swordsmen in the chest. He went down with a crash, crying out in pain and surprise. Joe watched, dazed, as a wiry young man with red hair stepped into the uncertain light, sword drawn, and without hesitation sliced toward the hand that held a hypodermic within inches of Methos’ shoulder. The severed hand tumbled, bloody wrist over fist, to the ground, still clutching the needle, as its former owner’s shrieks echoed through the alley. The wounded man sank to huddle on the ground.

 

The man who had been knocked down staggered to his feet, sword in hand, and came at the young man wildly, only to find himself disarmed and staring blankly at his opponent’s blade before he could strike a single blow.

 

“Stupid,” observed Richie with lethal succinctness. “Really stupid.” He clubbed the man with the hilt of his weapon and turned away as the mortal slumped to the ground, unconscious.

 

The second swordsman lifted his sword over Methos point downward, as if to impale him, then froze as Richie and the young woman each put their swords to his throat. Methos, evidently deciding to resolve the matter, raised one foot and delivered a forceful kick into the man’s groin. Howling in pain, the man dropped his weapon and staggered out of the alley.

 

Joe realized that he was panting as if he had just run a race, and tried to steady himself. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the semi-conscious whimpering of the amputee and the mutterings of the other injured man.

 

_God Almighty. We’re still alive._

 

Joe watched silently as Richie and the woman knelt beside Methos and helped him to a sitting position. The ancient Immortal was breathing heavily, and at least half a dozen bloodstained holes spotted his coat. Joe realized with a tightening throat that if the man had been mortal, he would probably be bleeding to death. Even with an Immortal’s ability to heal, Methos had to be in a hell of a lot of pain.

 

Joe shook himself. _Get up, Dawson. Don’t sit here like an idiot; get down there._

 

Bracing himself against the wall, he struggled slowly to his feet and began making his way toward his friends. By the time he was within a few feet of them, Richie and the woman were helping Methos to his feet.

 

Methos leaned on them for a moment, his face drawn in pain, then straightened and looked around in alarm. “Joe?”

 

“Present,” said Joe, attempting a light, steady tone and failing miserably. Shit. He sounded like an old man. He cleared his throat and tried to straighten as Methos’ gaze swept over him. He failed at that too. God, he was tired.

 

Methos pushed away his support, staggered to Joe, and took him by the shoulders. “Are you all right?” he demanded roughly.

 

Joe looked into his friend’s face carefully, expecting to see some evidence of the ruthless stranger who had been there just a few minutes before, but very little of that man was left to be seen, and the voice he heard was rough with concern, not violence.

 

“No,” snapped Joe irritably, relieved beyond words to hear that voice. “I am _not_ all right. I have been hit and cut and knocked over and dragged and scared, and I have spent the last fifteen minutes of my life sitting on my ass in an alley in the dark. Why the hell would I be all right?”

 

Methos’ pale, taut face relaxed into a tired smile as his hands pulled Joe slightly closer. “I withdraw the question,” he said unevenly, eyes very bright.

 

Joe took another quick look into his friend’s face and felt his throat tighten again. Shit. “I’m fine,” he said thickly, letting himself lean on his friend. “I’m fine. Are you—”

 

“No,” said Methos with a crooked little grin. “I’m not. I’ve been hit and cut and knocked over and....”

 

“Shut up and humor me.”

 

“Ask me again when we’ve put a few hundred miles between us and Paris.”

 

Joe nodded, seeing a thousand years’ worth of story in his friend’s face, and somehow managing not to ask. “That sounds good to me, pal.” Joe lifted his hand to Methos’ shoulder, but was prevented from resting it there as Methos hissed suddenly, pulling Joe’s collar open.

 

“You’re still bleeding,” Methos rasped, the ghost of his rage lacing his voice. “You’re still bleeding!” The fire lit in the hazel eyes again, and he whirled away toward Richie and the woman...and Nathan.

 

Before Joe could move, Methos had already snatched up his sword and strode to Nathan’s body, where Richie was helping the woman tie the dead man’s hands behind him. She looked up sharply as Methos came to her side.

 

“Tasha and Jochen are on their way—” she began.

 

“Stand aside,” said Methos harshly.

 

Richie rose with an uncertain expression. “I don’t think—”

 

“Rich, get Joe to the car,” commanded Methos, his eyes not leaving the woman’s.

 

“What say we _all_ get to the car?” asked Joe evenly, taking a couple halting steps to stand beside Richie.

 

Richie gave him a sharp look. “Geez, Joe, you look like—” He broke off and took Joe’s arm firmly.

 

“Go to the car,” ordered Methos flatly. His gaze flicked to the woman, who rose to stand in front of him with a determined expression. “You too.”

 

“I can’t do that,” said the woman softly. “You know that, _aba_.”

 

“It’s starting all over again. How many are going to die this time?”

 

“He won’t kill anyone where he’s going.”

 

“That’s what you said in Constantinople,” returned Methos bitterly. “But two people are already dead, and his master is still free.”

 

“I cannot permit him to be killed,” replied the woman quietly. “I made a vow. You of all people should know that I keep my vows.”

 

“Damn your vows,” snarled Methos. “He nearly killed Joe tonight. Get out of the way!”

 

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” asked Richie in a stage whisper.

 

“Nope,” replied Joe wearily. “Look, I hate to break up what is obviously a family reunion, but we are standing here with a whole bunch of bleeding people, and the French authorities tend to frown on that sort of thing. Maybe—”

 

“And I thought I told you to get him out of here,” continued Methos, gesturing to Joe.

 

“Oh, you did,” the woman replied wryly. “He had other ideas.”

 

“He always has other ideas,” snapped Methos. “He’s the goddamned Encyclopedia Britannica of other ideas. What the hell were you thinking, Joe?”

 

“Look, pal, I didn’t ask you to sic Xena, Warrior Princess on me,” growled Joe belligerently, ignoring the woman’s soft cackle of laughter. “And if it comes to that, what the hell were _you _thinking, dropping your knife?”

 

“I said leave!” shouted Methos.

 

“After you!” yelled Joe.

 

Richie cleared his throat. “Uh...guys....”

 

“Go to the car!” bellowed Methos and Joe in unison.

 

Richie sighed resignedly. “I’ll get the chair.”

 

“Chair?” Joe stared as Richie righted the previously unidentifiable object. “You belted that thug with my _chair_?”

 

“It worked, didn’t it?”

 

“Go. To. The. Car,” hissed Methos, his gaze resting on each of them for one lethal second.

 

“After you,” replied the woman mildly, meeting the gaze without flinching.

 

Methos’ eyes narrowed, and Joe found himself holding his breath. Without any other warning, Methos whipped his sword over his head and brought it down toward Nathan’s neck.

 

Richie grabbed Joe, pushing him away from the impending quickening and up against the wall of the alley, shielding him. “Shit oh shit oh shit....” he muttered, every muscle in his body tensing.

 

“Adam, for God’s sake,” gasped Joe wildly, becoming slowly aware of something that sounded like sirens.

 

The ring of steel against steel overwhelmed that sound for a moment, but in the seconds of silence that followed it became painfully obvious that the sirens were getting closer—and quickly.

Joe turned his face away from the wall to see Methos and the woman frozen in position on either side of Nathan, their blades raised, and their heads turned in the direction of the street. They turned to look at each other for a second, each breathing hard. Methos’ expression of indecision faded almost instantly.

 

“Damn you,” he snapped to the woman, leaning down to yank his dagger out of Nathan’s chest.

 

“Likewise,” replied the woman in an amused tone. “My car or yours?”

 

Methos ignored her, shoving his blades into his coat. “We’re going.”

 

Joe nearly collapsed as Richie released him, and Methos leaped over Nathan’s legs to catch his arm.

 

Richie grabbed his other arm hastily. “Sorry, Joe.”

 

“Sit,” ordered the woman shortly, shoving the chair toward him.

 

Joe stiffened at her tone. “I can—”

 

“We don’t have time for this,” she snapped, and with one shove brought the chair up from behind him, knocking him into it.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, lady?” bellowed Joe indignantly, struggling to assume a more dignified position.

 

Methos pushed her aside, grabbing the handles and pushing the chair down the alley as fast as he could go. “Rich, the bags and the cane!”

 

“Here you go, Joe,” gasped Richie, snatching up an unidentifiable object from the shadows and shoving it into Joe’s arms before grabbing Joe’s possessions.

 

Joe recognized his guitar case and groaned, holding onto the unwieldy burden with difficulty. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

 

“Keys, Joe, keys!” Methos’ voice came in gasps.

 

Joe heard the screeching of tires and sirens a few blocks away and hastily fished the keys out of his pocket. The woman snatched them and darted ahead toward the garage.

 

“What the...? How the hell does she know where to go?”

 

“She knows,” rasped Methos.

 

“Oh, thanks, pal. That is _highly_ informative. Hey!” Joe nearly bounced out of his chair as Methos drove it through a small pothole. “Easy on the suspension!”

 

“Your grasp of priorities is mind-boggling, Joseph,” gasped Methos, as they neared the end of the alley.

 

“Would you mind telling me who I just gave my car keys to?”

 

“Joanna.”

 

“That’s Joanna? _The_ Joanna? How...? Why...?”

 

“How later,” panted Methos. “Why later.”

 

“They’re heeeere,” chanted Richie nervously, as the sirens crescendoed at the other end of the alley to the accompaniment of flashing lights reflecting brilliantly against its walls.

 

Joe’s car screeched to a halt at the end of the alley, and Joanna stuck her head out the window. “Move it or lose it, guys.”

 

Joe felt himself being yanked out of his chair and shoved into the back seat of his car on top of his guitar, and he struggled to sit upright. He heard several loud impacts as what he assumed were the baggage and the wheelchair were tossed into the storage area and the hatch was slammed shut. Methos piled in beside Joe and Richie jumped into the front seat, slamming their doors as the light of flashlights touched the car.

 

“Go, go!” shouted Methos, and was propelled backward as the car roared from zero to sixty in far less than the recommended time.

 

“Jesus H. Christ,” gasped Joe as the car made a right turn without benefit of two of its tires. The car righted itself with a thump and accelerated again.

 

“Yeah! All right,” shouted Richie enthusiastically, with an admiring look at the driver.

 

“The hell it is!” snapped Joe. “Look, lady, _I_ can die, okay? Do you know how to handle those controls?”

 

Joanna shot a droll look into the rearview mirror. “Sure. It’s not _that_ different from an Egyptian battle chariot.”

 

The car barreled through a red light, narrowly dodging the traffic, and Joe groaned. “Dammit, will you hit the brakes?”

 

“Brakes? What’s that?” asked Joanna with a grin, taking another turn at top speed. The car teetered uncertainly on its two left tires, then returned with a jolt to all four. Richie whooped appreciatively.

 

“There’s no one following us, Jo,” said Methos shakily, still leaning back in his seat.

 

“Yeah, and it was too dark back there for them to make the car,” said Richie in a quieter voice, looking over his shoulder at the two occupants of the back seat with a worried expression. “We’d better chill, or we’ll attract attention.”

 

Joanna glanced in the rearview mirror again, nodding and slowing the car to a more reasonable pace. “How bad are you?”

 

“Give me a minute.” Methos’ voice dropped to a whisper; he was ashen.

 

Joe looked his friend over in alarm, then reached over to open his friend’s coat. The t-shirt Methos had borrowed from Duncan was soaked with blood. “Oh, God.”

 

“Relax, Joe, relax,” said Methos quickly, twitching the coat closed again. “It’s healed. I’m just...tired.” He sat up, rummaged in his coat pockets, and produced a handkerchief. “Here, let me see your neck.”

 

Joe winced as Methos very gently wiped away the blood and held the cloth against his throat to staunch the flow.

 

Richie watched, eyes narrowing with anger. “Please tell me the guy who did that is the one I chopped.”

 

“The guy who did this is very much in one piece, thanks to our driver,” snapped Methos, guiding Joe’s hand to hold the cloth and leaning back in his seat again.

 

“The Immortal,” said Richie grimly. “Was that Lucius?”

 

“No,” said Joanna softly. “He’s Lucius’ servant.”

 

“Then why protect him? Who are you?” demanded Richie angrily.

 

“Sorry,” sighed Methos. “Richard Ryan, Joseph Dawson, may I present Joanna, late of Ur, of Babylon, of Athens, of—”

 

“Joanna will do,” said the woman drily. “Really, _aba_. Civilizations crumble to dust, but your mouth is eternal.”

 

Joe shot Methos a questioning look, but was reassured by the smile that teased the corners of his friend’s mouth upward.

 

“You’re the Joanna that Methos knew in Lutetia?” asked Richie in amazement.

 

“Methos?” Joanna gave him a sharp look, then glanced back at Methos inquiringly.

 

Methos met the look wearily. “Don’t say it.”

 

Joanna glanced at Joe, then back to Methos. “A Watcher?”

 

“A friend.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Joe tensed at the edge in the woman’s tone. Great. Another story.

 

“Could we discuss this later?” Methos’ tone was brittle. “Where are you taking us?”

 

“There’s a safe house in Bordeaux—”

 

“No,” broke in Richie. “We have to go to the barge first.”

 

“The _barge_?” Joe stared at Richie blankly, trying to get his brain to work. “Why?”

 

Richie turned around in his seat, eyes wide and face pale. “We have to warn Mac. We can’t just blow town and leave him there in the shape he’s in. Not when there’s some psycho Immortal in town. We can’t.”

 

“He’ll be fine, Rich,” replied Methos. “Lucius isn’t interested in other Immortals, unless....” His voice trailed off, and his expression changed.

 

“Unless they hang out with Watchers,” finished Joe grimly, his stomach turning over. MacLeod. “Right?”

 

Methos turned to Joe with an anguished expression. “Joanna, there’s a barge moored across—”

 

“Across from Notre Dame, yes, I know,” said Joanna softly. She and Methos exchanged a look in the rearview mirror, and Methos closed his eyes for a moment.

 

“As fast as you can,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

 

 

***

 

Lucius stared down at the bloodied man who knelt before him, struggling to comprehend what he had just been told. It was impossible. It was impossible that Nathan had failed to carry out his orders. In all the centuries of his service, Nathan had never once failed him. He watched his servant silently as Nathan, his gaze never rising from the floor, lifted his sword and offered his master his life.

 

“Explain,” said Lucius softly. If any other had failed in this enterprise, he would have accepted the offer. But this was Nathan.

 

“No explanation can excuse my failure,” whispered Nathan, eyes still averted.

 

“I do not seek to excuse it! Explain!”

 

“He fought well.”

 

“We have known he could fight well for centuries. You were seven to his one! Explain.”

 

“He was not alone. I was rendered unconscious before he could be subdued.”

 

Lucius sighed and considered his servant for a moment, then nodded for Nathan to rise. “Put away your sword, Nathan, son of David.”

 

Nathan rose and sheathed his sword, his gaze still fixed on the floor before him.

 

“Who was with him?”

 

“The Watcher, Dawson, was the only other person I detected when we entered the alley. I restrained him, held my knife to his throat, and ordered Marcus Gaius to drop his weapon.”

 

“And?” Lucius leaned forward, keenly interested.

 

“He did so.”

 

Lucius sat silently for a moment, contemplating the implications of this news, then laughed long and quietly. This piece of information almost made tonight’s disappointment worthwhile. Marcus Gaius had been willing to die for this Watcher—and to die slowly. Oh, yes. This was illuminating indeed, and gratifying. This boded well for the totality of his revenge.

 

“Continue, Nathan.”

 

“He had no sooner dropped his dagger than someone—an Immortal—struck me from behind. The man who escaped tells me that there were two who fought for Marcus—a young, red-haired man...and a woman.”

 

Lucius closed his eyes, all his pleasure evaporating in an instant. “And the description of this woman?”

 

“It was she, Master.”

 

Lucius controlled his reactions with an effort. No! Not again. Darius’ whore would not deny him justice a second time! He forced himself to breathe slowly, to rein in his rage. The witch would not have him again! Never again! Better to die exacting his revenge than to be caged like a brute. He spoke, and was pleased at the calm, steady tone of his voice. “And the young man, I assume, was Mr. Ryan. How is it that he was able to take your men at unawares?”

 

“It seems that _she_ dispatched the man I left on the street as sentry, Master. I depended upon this man for warning of any who approached. I depended upon him too much. The error was mine.”

 

“Yes,” said Lucius sternly, then relented. “But you could not have foreseen her arrival. I did not imagine that she would be able to trace us so quickly. In this I am to blame. I should not have underestimated her; she has always proved a worthy opponent.” He fell silent for a moment.

 

Marcus would undoubtedly flee Paris, and take Dawson and Ryan with him. The witch would no doubt aid them in their escape and conceal them. Marcus would be beyond his reach forever, unless....

 

Unless there was another here in Paris whom he would wish to protect, one whom he would not leave without. It was unlikely. But then Lucius would never have imagined that Marcus would be foolish enough to befriend anyone again, let alone a Watcher.

 

‘Unlikely,’ then, was precisely what one must expect from Marcus. It was unusual, and potentially dangerous, for an Immortal to surround himself with companions who knew what he was. And yet this was precisely what Marcus had done. Dawson, Ryan, the woman Amanda...could there be others in Marcus’ little family? How had Marcus and these people been drawn together? Did they have something in common...or someone?

 

Lucius swung toward the computer and summoned the records of Dawson, Ryan, and Amanda. He scanned each one thoroughly, feverishly, in search of a common thread—and found one. Joseph Dawson, Watcher. Current assignment: Duncan MacLeod. Richard Ryan, Immortal. Teacher: Duncan MacLeod. Amanda, Immortal. Lover: Duncan MacLeod.

 

Lucius stabbed the keyboard eagerly to call up MacLeod’s record. He read it, chuckling in exultation, until another name caught his eye. His mirth died and his heart went cold within him. Darius? _Darius?_ This MacLeod was a protégé of that God-cursed fiend? Yes, yes, of course he was! And a friend to Marcus Gaius, no doubt! By all that’s holy, every one of these people would be taken and....

 

Lucius suddenly realized that he had spoken his last words aloud, and glanced up to meet Nathan’s concerned gaze. Lucius nodded slowly, calming himself. “We have them,” he breathed harshly. “I know where they are.”

 

***

 

 

The leather bonds bit into the skin of his wrists as he fought to free his hands.

 

“You didn’t really think you could escape me, did you, Brother?”

 

_Brother? Wait. This isn’t—_

 

“Untie me!”

 

_Not my voice. Not me_....

 

Hands stroked his face, his hair, and he pulled away, straining to see in the dark of the tent. No lamps....

 

“You no longer enjoy my touch, Brother? Did you find another in that nest of scholarly eunuchs that pleases you more?”

 

The hands traveled over his body slowly, and he pulled away, only to be yanked closer again. He could feel hot breath, reeking of liquor, fluttering over the skin of his face and neck.

 

“What did you do to them?”

 

Laughter. “They took you from me...from us. I did what was necessary.”

 

“They’re dead.” Uneven breathing.

 

“To the last child.” One of the hands drifted to his crotch. “There was a time when the thought of that would arouse you.”

 

_No! Don’t_....

 

“There was never such a time, Kronos. Untie me!”

 

_Kronos_....

 

“Tell me which of your dead scholars was your lover. I will have his body brought here. I will take you before his eyes.”

 

The touch became hard, hurting.

 

A gasp of pain. “I had no lover among them.”

 

_No! Take your hands off me_....

 

“Among their women, then. Yes? Tell me.”

 

“I had no lover!”

 

More soft laughter. “No lover? For over a year? You must be in desperate need, Brother.”

 

“Let me go!”

 

Hands clutched him violently and forced him onto his stomach. His face was momentarily pressed into the sand, and he raised it, gasping for air. The hands tugged at his linen trousers, yanking them down to his knees, then over his feet. He heard them being flung away. The cool night air touched his skin.

 

_Get your damned hands off me now!_

 

“I will never let you go. Do you know why?”

 

One hot hand caressed his buttocks roughly as the other pressed his shoulder down into the sand, pinning him.

 

“Because you do not wish me to.”

 

“No!”

 

_Get off me, get off! Don’t … don’t…_

“That is the game, isn’t it, Brother? You hide, I seek, I find...I take.”

 

His legs were pushed apart.

 

“_No! _Don’t....”

 

_Please … don’t…._

“It is a good game, Brother. It is worthy of you. Many die to hide you. How many have died, do you think? How many more will die? Yes, it is a very good game.”

 

He struggled upward and was shoved into the sand again. “No! I won’t leave again—”

 

“Of course you will. And I will find you again. That is the game. And I like this game, Brother. We both win, don’t we? We both get what we really want.”

 

A finger entered him brutally, and he cried out in pain. “Please!”

 

_No! God, stop…._

Soft laughter. “Certainly, Brother. As you wish....”

 

Agony tore into him, forcing the screams from his throat again and again as the sadistic thrusts grew in power and tempo. He was being ripped apart....

 

_Stop! Please, stop… Oh, God…_

“I’ve missed you, Brother.” The voice came in labored gasps. “Tell me you’ve missed me. Tell me!”

 

_I’ve missed you! Stop, please stop…_    “I’ve...missed...you.... Please....” The voice came in broken sobs. “Please....”

 

_“Please!” _Duncan howled the word, tearing at the blanket that covered him as if it were a living enemy. He stared around the empty barge, panting as if he had been running for his life, then groaned and buried his face in his hands.

 

Another dream. Another nightmare. Another memory. Another of _Methos_’ memories. God Almighty.

 

Methos.

 

Duncan staggered out of bed, wincing at the phantom pain that raced along his spine, and staggered to the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water, trying to regulate his breathing.

 

It was over. And it had never happened. It was a memory. And it was only a dream. Duncan had never been raped. It was not real … at least not for Duncan MacLeod. It was very real for Methos.

 

Methos had tried to leave the Horsemen, and paid the price. When had that been? He had ridden with Kronos for a thousand years. How many times over the course of that millennium had he tried to escape, and paid that price? And how could this be reconciled with the man who killed thousands and _liked_ it?

 

It couldn’t be.

 

Duncan had thought that he had understood what life with the Horsemen had been like for Methos. He had thought that he had understood Methos’ relationship with Kronos.

 

Duncan stared into the mirror as the water dripped down his face, realizing now that he had understood nothing about Methos’ life as a Horseman. Nothing. He had condemned this man knowing _nothing_.

 

Duncan wiped a towel across his face roughly. He would give almost anything for five minutes of Methos’ time right now….

 

As if in answer to his thought, the signature of an Immortal reached him, and he bolted out of the bathroom. “Methos?”

 

“It’s me, Mac.” Richie pushed open the door and stuck his head in. “Uh...you okay?”

 

“Rich,” said Duncan shakily, approaching his former student hesitantly, then stopping in his tracks, eyes widening. Richie had been in a fight. He was disheveled and sweating, and his sleeve was splattered with blood.

 

“Are you all right?” demanded Duncan anxiously. He closed the distance between them quickly. “What’s happened?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Richie too quickly. “No damage. Look, Mac, Joe and Methos and me...we’re getting out of town for a while.”

 

“You’re leaving?” Duncan felt the pit of his stomach drop, then examined the younger man closely. “Tell me what’s happened. Please.”

 

“I don’t have time to tell you everything,” said Richie tensely. “Mac, you have to clear out, too. I mean, right now.”

 

“Why? If you’ll tell me what’s going on—”

 

“There’s no time! You’re not safe, none of us are. Look, I have to go. Just get your ass on a plane back to the States, okay?”

 

Duncan saw the barely leashed fear in Richie’s face, and reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “You faced someone tonight.”

 

Richie laughed raggedly. “It’s not what you think.”

 

“Rich, if you’re in trouble—”

 

“We’re all in trouble!”

 

“Let me help you.”

 

“Mac, there’s nothing you can do!”

 

“Tell me.” Duncan laid his other hand on Richie’s free shoulder and drew him all the way inside. “Come on! You don’t really expect me to just walk out on you, do you?”

 

“Why not?” asked Richie in an edged tone, obviously losing patience.

 

“I don’t walk out on my friends when they’re in trouble,” returned Duncan stiffly, stung.

 

“Really,” said Richie grimly. “There are a couple of guys out in the car who tell a different story.”

 

Duncan stared at him for a moment, struggling with both anger and the sinking feeling that the two guys in the car had probably told Richie the truth. “Are they okay?” he managed finally. “Rich, I’m sorry about—”

 

“Damn it, Mac, there’s no time for this! Now, I am leaving and you are packing.”

 

Richie turned toward the door, but Duncan grabbed his arm and swung him down the steps and toward the sofa, trying to control his temper. Damn it, why was the kid being so stubborn? If he’d just tell him what was going on....

 

Richie shoved him away roughly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let me go!”

 

Duncan gasped at the phrase, fighting the images of the nightmare with everything in him. He backed away with a stricken expression, spreading his hands in a supplicating gesture. “Sorry. Sorry, Rich. Go if you want. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wanted to help.” His voice shook and he turned away. Damn. Breathe. Breathe. It was only a dream. He leaned against the couch and thought longingly of his recently departed supply of whiskey.

 

Duncan heard Richie swear softly. “Mac. Hey, you okay, man?”

 

Duncan nodded silently and opened his mouth to add his voice to the lie, then froze as he sensed another Immortal signature. Methos. It had to be.... He turned quickly, then froze in shock. Methos came through the door slowly, painfully, as if it hurt him to move. Joe, despite clutching his cane in his right hand, was leaning heavily on Methos’ shoulder with his left. Methos’ right arm circled Joe. Neither of them looked as if they would be able to stand without the other. They were ashen and grim-faced, their clothes torn and bloodstained.

 

They were hurt.

 

“Oh, my God,” said Duncan hoarsely. “What the—?”

 

“We need to get moving, Rich,” said Joe unevenly.

 

“Right,” said Richie quickly, moving towards them.

 

Duncan was on the steps before Richie could get there. “What’s happened? Are you—”

 

“We’re leaving, MacLeod,” said Methos coldly.

 

“Neither of you are in any shape to be going anywhere,” replied Duncan, trying to steady his voice. “Please come inside.”

 

“There’s no time! Damn it, didn’t you hear a thing I said?” Richie tried to get past him, and Duncan pushed him very gently backward.

 

“I heard you. You’re in trouble.” Duncan looked up at Methos and Joe. “Let me help you. Please. You’re safe here.”

 

Methos laughed harshly. “You know nothing of the danger, yet you assume that your presence alone will protect us from it. Your arrogance never ceases to amaze me, MacLeod.”

 

Duncan swallowed and climbed the stairs to stand in front of his friends. “I’ll do whatever I can to help. Just come inside and sit down, please, before you _fall_ down.”

 

“Come on, Rich,” said Joe determinedly, clutching Methos’ shoulder so tightly that his knuckles were white.

 

“Joe, I’m sorry.”

 

“_I _am not the one you should be apologizing to, pal,” snapped Joe.

 

“I’m apologizing to all of you,” said Duncan desperately. His gaze went to Methos. God, the man looked his age. He was really hurting, and not just physically. The older Immortal was thin, even for him, and the dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced they looked like bruises. Had Methos looked like this earlier today? He must have; obviously the man hadn’t dropped ten pounds and suffered sleep deprivation in the matter of a few hours.

 

_How could I not have noticed?_

 

Duncan had no idea what had happened tonight to make things worse, but the thought that his idiocy this afternoon had forced them to face it without his help galled him. “Methos, I’m sorry. I was wrong to say those things. I didn’t mean them.”

 

“We do not have time for this,” rasped Methos, tearing his gaze from Duncan with obvious difficulty.

 

Duncan’s reply was cut off by the signature of an Immortal, followed by the sound of an impact on deck. Joe and Methos exchanged startled glances. “Give me your sword,” said Duncan quickly. He heard Richie swear softly behind him.

 

“It’s all right, Mac,” said Methos faintly, swaying slightly as he very gently disentangled himself from Joe and leaned him against the wall. Joe gave him an alarmed look. “It’s just Amanda with the groceries.” Methos’ eyes closed. “I don’t....” He stumbled slightly, then went completely limp and fell forward.

 

Joe made a wild grab, but couldn’t get a hold of him. “Adam!”

 

Duncan dove forward, caught his friend before he hit the floor and then sank to his knees, turning Methos over in his arms and cradling him gently. The bloodstained shirt was clearly visible. “Christ,” he gasped, laying a hand on Methos’ carotid artery.

 

“Is he...?” Joe seemed unable to finish the question.

 

“Out cold,” said Duncan grimly. He got his other arm under Methos’ legs and picked him up, wondering numbly why the man seemed so light to him. There was far too much to this man for him to be so light to carry. Duncan walked silently past a sober-faced Richie to the couch and laid Methos out carefully, slipping a pillow under his head. He knelt beside him, his gaze sweeping over the half-dozen bloody rents in his clothing. There was no doubt that a sword was responsible for those wounds. “Did he take a quickening?”

 

“No,” said Richie. “He wasn’t fighting an Imm—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “No.”

 

Duncan turned to look at his former student in growing confusion and impatience. “Are you saying a _mortal_ did this to him? Why?”

 

Richie folded his arms across his chest and met Duncan’s gaze with his most determined, obstinate expression. Duncan swore silently; he knew that look all too well. It was the one that had always told Duncan that he had no chance of reasoning with the boy, and that it was time to turn him over to Tessa. Somehow _she_ had always managed to reach Richie. Tessa had always managed to reach both of them.

 

Duncan turned almost desperately to Joe, who was still leaning against the wall staring at Methos, either unable or unwilling to move. “Joe, please.”

 

“We’ll go as soon as he’s awake,” said Joe unevenly, not budging.

 

Duncan exploded with worry and frustration. “Joe, for the love of God, look at yourself! Look at Methos! You two will be lucky if you can make it back to your car, let alone anywhere else.” He saw the intransigence in Joe’s face grow stronger, saw Richie stiffen, and took a breath to calm himself. He lowered his voice. “Please. Let me help.”

 

Joe’s expression wavered uncertainly. “We have to leave, MacLeod. The longer we stay here, the more dangerous it is for all of us.”

 

“Please tell me why.”

 

A second loud impact on deck startled them all. Duncan rose quickly. That certainly had not sounded like a bag of groceries hitting the deck. What the hell was Amanda doing out there?

 

“Joe?” The sound of Methos’ faint voice made Duncan spin around again. The older man’s eyes were open; he was looking around confusedly.

 

“Right here,” said Joe quickly, pushing himself away from the wall and struggling down the steps. Duncan swallowed at the effort it took Joe to manage that. The man could barely move. Richie hastily took Joe’s arm and helped him over to the couch.

 

“What the hell...?” Methos sat up as Joe sank onto the couch beside him.

 

“You passed out.”

 

“How long was I—”

 

“Only a minute.”

 

A deafening metallic crash made all four men turn toward the door. Joe’s eyes widened and he stared at Methos as if in sudden and dismayed comprehension.

 

“What the hell was that?” demanded Duncan, but found himself being ignored as his three guests exchanged glances.

 

“Did I hear a thud?” asked Joe in a resigned tone.

 

“Sounded more like a _clatter_ to me,” said Richie, going down on his haunches beside Joe.

 

“Did the boat rock?” asked Methos seriously, a faint smile touching his pale face.

 

“I didn’t _feel_ the boat rock,” said Richie, with the air of a man who was giving the matter a great deal of sober thought.

 

“Then it wasn’t a thud,” Methos informed Joe with quiet confidence.

 

“Thanks for the clarification, pal,” growled Joe.

 

“Will someone please—” began Duncan impatiently.

 

Richie leaned forward with a painfully earnest expression that made Duncan break off and stare at him suspiciously. “Tell me, Methos, as the oldest living Immortal—”

 

“Yes, my son?” asked Methos serenely.

 

Duncan’s eyes narrowed.

 

Richie continued in a tone that conveyed nothing but the most profound reverence. “If there’s a thud on a barge on the Seine and nobody’s there to see the boat rock, does it still rock?”

 

Joe shot Richie one lethal look and developed a sudden fit of coughing. Duncan stared at each face in turn, struggling for comprehension.

 

Methos shook his head and laid a hand on Richie’s shoulder with a grave expression. “No, my son. It just...lies there.”

 

Joe’s uncontrolled guffaw was immediately followed by Richie’s loud burst of laughter—slightly hysterical laughter, but laughter all the same.

 

“Very funny,” said Duncan icily. He had no clue what the joke was, but knowing Methos, Duncan was sure that _he_ was the butt of it. Trust these three to choose a moment like this for their little in-jokes.

Methos looked up at Duncan with an innocent, bewildered expression. “What?”

 

The sudden and unmistakable rumble of engines cut off whatever acid reply Duncan had intended to make. Duncan felt the faint roll of the deck below his feet. The barge had begun to move. Someone was....

 

“What the hell is going on, Methos?” shouted Duncan, all his previous concerns forgotten in a flash of anger.

 

“Off-hand I’d say someone is hijacking your boat.”

 

Joe sighed loudly and leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes and addressing a few brief remarks to the room at large. “Yeah. Sure. Why not? It’s time for a nice ride on the big boat. Go with it, Joe. Have fun.”

 

Richie patted Joe’s arm soothingly. “That’s right, Joe. When it’s inevitable, relax and enjoy it.”

 

Unable to stop himself, Duncan seized Methos’ coat by the collar and hauled him to his feet, hating himself as the older man winced in pain. Duncan reached inside Methos’ coat and seized the hilt of his sword. “I’ll borrow this, if you don’t mind.”

 

“MacLeod, you’re an idiot,” said Methos wearily.

 

“Mac, it’s okay!” Richie scrambled to his feet. “Just relax.”

 

“I’ve had enough of this,” snapped Duncan. He turned and bolted up the stairs and out the door onto the deck. He glanced quickly astern and saw Notre Dame rapidly receding in the distance. The barge had been properly unmoored and was being piloted correctly. Whoever was at the helm knew what they were doing. He started toward the pilothouse, noting a pair of suitcases, a guitar case and Joe’s wheelchair lying heaped up on the deck as he passed. So much for Amanda and the groceries. What the hell was Methos up to now?

 

“Mac, take it easy,” panted Richie, catching up with him. “It’s not what you think.”

 

Duncan waved him to silence peremptorily, and Richie sighed and said nothing more, although he continued to follow Duncan as he made his way to the door of the pilothouse. Duncan tried the door as quietly as he could. It was locked from the inside.

 

Fine. The window, then. Duncan flattened himself against the wall and turned the corner, noting Richie out of the corner of his eye. His former student was standing well back, his arms folded across his chest and a thoroughly exasperated expression on his face. Duncan focused his attention on the window, getting a grip on Methos’ sword, and then in one smooth movement swung around in front of the window with the sword extended before him. “I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

 

The person at the wheel turned toward him. In the dim light of the pilothouse, Duncan could determine only that it was a woman.

 

“Good for you. I’m Xena, Warrior Princess,” she said around a mouthful of something. She eyed the end of the sword that hovered a few inches from her nose. “You won’t need that. Want some?” She shoved something wrapped in foil toward him with an inquiring expression.

 

It took Duncan a moment to realize that the woman was offering him a chocolate bar. “Who are you? And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

“She’s Joanna,” supplied Richie helpfully over Duncan’s right shoulder.

 

“Hey, Rich,” said Joanna casually. “Nestlés’ Crunch?”

 

“Ah...maybe later,” said Richie uncomfortably. “I think you’d better explain—”

 

“Cut the engines _now_,” commanded Duncan angrily. “And unlock that door.”

 

Joanna’s expression hardened. “If you want your friends to live, you’ll—”

 

Duncan tightened his grip on the sword. “If _you_ want to live, you won’t threaten my friends!”

 

Joanna lifted an eyebrow. “My, we _are_ developing into a paranoid little hard-ass,” she said drily. “How disappointing.”

 

Duncan felt his jaw drop slightly and heard what sounded suspiciously like a stifled bark of laughter from Richie.

 

Joanna popped another piece of chocolate into her mouth. “I was about to say that if you want your friends to live, you’ll let me get this thing as far from Notre Dame as possible. The people who attacked us tonight will trace us there. It’s imperative that we move.”

 

Duncan glanced uncertainly at Richie.

 

Richie nodded. “It’s okay. She’s an old friend of Methos’.”

 

“How reassuring,” muttered Duncan, not lowering the sword.

 

“Mac, she saved Joe’s life tonight,” said Richie in a tone laced with suppressed anger. “Geez, man, just once will you _listen_ before you start swinging?”

 

Duncan felt a flush rise to his face. Damn. He’d done it again. And he couldn’t blame it on the whiskey this time. He withdrew the sword from the window, groping for something to say and coming up speechless.

 

“You _could_ have given us a little warning,” Richie added, casting Joanna a reproachful glance.

 

“You _said _two minutes,” returned Joanna. “We’d been in one place too long.” She glanced back to Duncan. “I think your friends have some explaining to do. Why don’t you go below and let them do it? I’ll come down when I get us to a safe moorage.”

 

“Piloting this river at night can be tricky—” began Duncan uncertainly, then stopped as Joanna began to laugh.

 

“God, when did you get to be so twitchy? I’ve been piloting this river since the divine Julius’ day. Here.” She extended the chocolate again. “You look like you need this more than I do.”

 

Duncan, bemused, reached out and took the chocolate.

 

Joanna nodded approvingly. “Now run along.” She returned her attention to the river.

 

Duncan turned and followed Richie back to the hold, peering at the chocolate suspiciously. “Nestlés’ Crunch,” he muttered. “What a night.” If Methos didn’t start giving him answers _now_, that old schemer was going to find this thing being wedged up a highly inappropriate portion of his anatomy.

 

***

 

 

Amanda dragged three bags of groceries out of the back seat of the cab and struggled to look at her watch as the driver pulled away. Almost seven o’clock. She grimaced. Later than she had thought. Methos had said to bring the groceries and the phone to the barge sometime this afternoon. Oh, well. She shrugged. So, she was a little late. Wasn’t a girl allowed a little time for herself? This nanny business could be overdone. After all, Duncan was in good hands now.

 

She took a few steps toward the river and then stopped dead in her tracks.

 

The barge was gone.

 

No _barge_? There had to be a barge. Where the hell does a barge go? It doesn’t go anywhere. It just _lies_ there. Who moves a barge?

 

Methos moves a barge. That’s who moves a damn barge! It was probably his idea of a joke, a payback for being late.

 

Amanda spotted another car parked beside Duncan’s and approached it suspiciously. It was Joe’s car. Joe Dawson. Yes. Of course! This made perfect sense! Joe and Richie were in on this, too. The Nanny Brigade were all in it together.

 

Amanda could see it now: all four of them squatting in various stages of undress in that damned floating sardine can of MacLeod’s, having some sort of He-Man-Let’s-Laugh-at-the-Girl meeting; cheap beer and stale chips and jokes about her hair; the whole place awash in dirty underwear and beer cans and male smugness; and male bonding levels so far into the toxic range that human habitation would be impossible for millennia.

 

“Oh! _Oh_!” shrieked Amanda, incoherent in her outrage. She had spent an _hour_ shopping and getting over here. _An hour!_ “Those...those..._men_!” She dropped the bags and kicked one of them viciously. She would cut off their _heads_! _After_ she cut off their dangly bits. And then she would stuff and mount these objets des hommes in a public display case, so that all men would know better than to try to screw Amanda!

 

Unless of course, Amanda amended hastily, she _wanted_ to be screwed. Clearing her throat, she smoothed her hair and adjusted her clothes, recovering her composure. Then she stalked to the edge of the dock and peered upstream and down. She spotted the barge moving downstream about a quarter of a mile away, its lights reflecting against the dark water.

 

Amanda grit her teeth at the sight. If that pack of mouth-breathing knuckle-draggers thought they were going to get away with this, they could think again. It’s not as if they would be hard to follow. Amanda didn’t know much about barges, but this she knew: they stayed in the water and they were slow. So....

 

Amanda turned to Duncan’s car with a satisfied smile. She strolled to the driver’s side door and opened it.

 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Ooooh, Duncan MacClueless. How careless.”

 

Typical of MacLeod. Unlocked door, no car alarm, not even a steering wheel lock. What a boy scout. She slid in and reached under the dashboard with expert hands. It had been a few years, but hotwiring wasn’t brain surgery. All she had to do....

 

Amanda froze as the signature of another Immortal touched her. Damn. Who? She waited a moment, reaching for the hilt of Duncan’s katana inside her coat, then stopped as the signature faded and passed. She waited for a few seconds, but didn’t sense it again. She shrugged and went back to work. Probably a passing Immortal on the promenade. You couldn’t swing a dead cat in Paris without hitting an Immortal these days. They were drawn to MacLeod like flies to road kill.

 

The engine roared to life and Amanda sat back with a satisfied sigh, then glanced at the bags of groceries lying on the ground beside the car. Her eyes narrowed. Why she would even _consider_ taking food to those creatures she couldn’t imagine. However, some of the canned goods would make formidable projectiles, and she could come up with creative and exquisitely painful uses for just about everything else. She sighed and loaded the bags into the car, then swung herself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind her. As she slipped the car into gear, she sensed an Immortal again.

 

It couldn’t be a different one. That would be too much of a coincidence. Somebody having second thoughts about letting one get away? Well, that was just too damned bad. She had agony to inflict elsewhere tonight. Amanda pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and the car took off with an emotionally satisfying scream from the engine and a squeal from the tires. Glancing in the rear view mirror, Amanda caught a brief glance of a tall, slender man with long, dark hair watching the car speed away. She snorted derisively at the sight.

 

_Amateur._

***

 

 

The telephone rang, and Lucius stared at it for a moment, startled. This did not bode well. Suppressing, with difficulty, any emotional reaction, he bent to press the button on the speakerphone.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Master, the barge is no longer moored here.”

 

Lucius said nothing. He could hear in Nathan’s tone that all was not lost.

 

“The woman Amanda came to the river. She seemed surprised that the barge had been moved, but has taken MacLeod’s car and is headed downstream. I believe she knows where it is to be found. I have instructed two of my men to follow her. Your orders, Master?”

 

“Remain the same. Locate the barge and bring everyone aboard her to me—alive.”

 

“It shall be done, Master.”

 

Nathan broke the connection, and Lucius leaned back in his chair. “Yes,” he murmured contentedly. “I believe it shall be.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Will you please keep still?” snapped Methos. He tried once again to apply some antiseptic to the slice across Joe’s throat. “God, I forgot what an abysmal patient you are.”

 

“And I forgot what a ham-handed doctor _you_ are, de Sade,” growled Joe, wincing. “Have any of your patients survived?”

 

Methos fought back a grin as he taped some gauze over the wound. “A few.”

 

“Amazing,” returned Joe with heavy sarcasm. “I’d have thought the bedside manner alone would be fatal.”

 

“Bedside _what_?” Methos observed his trembling hands with the detachment typical of the onset of shock, hoping Joe hadn’t noticed. “Never heard of it.” He tossed the rest of the gauze and tape back into MacLeod’s first-aid kit. Odd thing for an Immortal to have around. It must date from Tessa’s time here. Just as well that MacLeod hadn’t disposed of it.

 

“He’s been up there a long time. You don’t think he’d take her head, do you?” asked Joe. He leaned back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes.

 

“Of course he would,” returned Methos, seating himself cross-legged on the sofa beside his friend. “Whether he _could_ is another question.”

 

Joe’s eyes snapped open. “She’s better than MacLeod?”

 

“Joe, _Maurice_ is better than MacLeod right now.” Methos rubbed his eyes tiredly.

 

“She wouldn’t try for _his_ head, would she?” asked Joe anxiously.

 

“No,” said Methos with certainty, grateful that there was at least one thing he could be sure of at that moment. “She won’t hurt any of us.”

 

“You’ve known her a long time,” pursued Joe.

 

“Most of my life.”

 

Joe’s eyes flew open. “Most of _your _life?”

 

“Uh-huh.” Methos managed a nonchalant expression.

 

“There’s no file on her! How’d she avoid—” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “How long is ‘most’?”

 

“Oh...3,900 years or so. “ Methos grinned broadly as Joe’s jaw dropped. “Pretty good, huh? Even I didn’t manage to remain undocumented that long.”

 

Joe shot him a disgusted look. “I’m not handing out prizes, pal. How the hell has she managed to avoid being documented?”

 

“She never hunted. She’s always avoided the Game. And she’s spent long periods of her life— centuries— in seclusion. She’s also very good at dealing with Watchers.” Methos let his grin turn wicked.

 

“No kidding,” grumbled Joe. “I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”

 

“You’re lucky that’s all you’ve got,” said Methos sternly, trying to suppress his concern at Joe’s pallor. “When I say go, I mean _go_.”

 

Joe glared at him. “Fine. Next time I’ll just let Moe, Larry and Curly have their way with you.”

 

“Petulance does not become you, Joseph,” observed Methos gravely, amused.

 

Joe snorted and fell silent for a few minutes, and Methos leaned back and closed his eyes. God, it had been a close thing. Lucius had worked faster than even Methos’ worst fears had led him to anticipate. Methos drew in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. The image of Nathan holding a knife to Joe’s throat was now seared into his memory. How could he have allowed that to happen? How could he have underestimated Lucius...again? The fact that Lucius had had no means to trace Methos to Paris was irrelevant. He should not have allowed that fact to have any bearing on his choice of a course of action. Lucius had never done what was expected, and had frequently done what was impossible. Methos had seen the proof of that lying on all too many silver platters.

 

But how could Lucius have traced him? Even if Lucius now had access to the Watcher database, Adam Pierson’s file and photograph were no longer to be found there, and there was no living person who could have told him where Marcus Gaius was to be found. Then why had Lucius come to Paris? His exhausted mind refused to provide an answer.

 

“What’s the vow?”

 

Methos opened his eyes, startled out of his dark reverie. “Vow?”

 

“Joanna said she’d made a vow. What is it?” Joe’s eyes were closed, but he sounded very much awake.

 

Methos closed his eyes again. “It’s possible to overdo the Watcher observe-and-record bit, Joe.”

 

“I was _born_ observing, pal. Diversionary tactics notwithstanding.”

 

Methos sighed. “She promised not to allow harm to come to Lucius. Or to allow him to harm others.”

 

Joe emitted a bark of startled laughter. “Oh, is that all?”

 

“She needed a hobby.”

 

“That is a hell of a tall order for one woman.”

 

“She’s had help.”

 

“Help? She needs a damn army!”

 

“She has one. Had one, at any rate. If Joshua is dead—”

 

“Joshua of Jerusalem.”

 

“Her second-in-command. If he’s been killed, there’s a distinct possibility that the Order has been destroyed.”

 

“The Order.”

 

“Joanna’s army. Thirty Immortals and … oh, forty-odd mortals, give or take.”

 

“I need a drink. Are you telling me that all these people have been chasing—”

 

“Guarding.”

 

“Guarding. Shapiro was right? Lucius was locked up?”

 

“Tight as a Scotsman.”

 

“And they’ve been guarding him for nine hundred years?”

 

“Nine hundred and one next Tuesday.”

 

“For the vow.”

 

“For duty and honor,” said Methos acidly.

 

“Bullshit. Nobody does something for nine centuries for duty and honor. Who asked?”

 

Methos raised his head and opened his eyes in surprise. “Excuse me?”

 

Joe leaned forward with a curiously intent expression. “Who asked? These Immortals have given up a major chunk of their lives to keep Lucius out of circulation. Who would they do that for? Who are they keeping their word to?”

 

Methos sighed again and lay his head back against the sofa. “Depends on who you ask.”

 

Joe’s gaze sharpened and he nodded, as if he had expected the answer. “Darius.”

 

Methos nodded in return, allowing his eyes to close again. “After word of the first killing reached him, he sent them to search for Lucius. Joanna and the Order tracked him across Europe for six hundred years, always a few months or a few weeks or a few days too late to save the next butchered Watcher.”

 

“Jesus,” muttered Joe, his tone an odd mixture of appalled and admiring.

 

“They finally caught up with him in Constantinople in 1096.”

 

Joe regarded him silently for a few moments. “And so did you and Gabriel.”

 

“To be precise, Lucius caught up with us,” said Methos quietly.

***

 

 

“They weren’t even listening!” Gabriel strode angrily through the crowded streets, his scribe’s robes glistening in the torchlight. “The greatest peril the Watchers have ever faced—”

 

“Lower your voice and mind your words,” murmured Methos in his friend’s ear, glancing about carefully. No one in their vicinity appeared to pay any attention. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon one’s point of view, the people of Constantinople had too many troubles of their own to waste their attention on the odd behavior of a court scribe and a minor courtier. Methos had been in enough cities under siege to be intimately familiar with the sensation; the barbarians outside the walls may not have been, strictly speaking, the enemy, but they certainly passed for such. It was not safe for any citizen of Byzantium to venture outside the walls.

 

Gabriel brushed his golden hair back from his face and smiled slyly at Methos, his anger evaporating. “As my lord commands.”

 

Methos huffed, feeling the blood rush to his face. “Don’t call me that. Not outside the Blachernae.”

 

“The title of Imperial Counselor suits you, Lord Stephanos.” Gabriel lowered his voice seductively. “The Emperor did well to bestow it upon you. He would be at a loss to deal with the Franks if not for your guidance.”

 

“Rubbish. You’ve become too adept at palace flattery, Scribe.”

 

“And he does well to keep you close to him,” murmured Gabriel, leaning close. “Does he find you beautiful, Methos?”

 

“Hush,” muttered Methos, trying not to look into Gabriel’s lovely, mischievous face.

 

“I find you beautiful.” Gabriel’s warm breath caressed Methos’ ear.

 

“The opinion of one so easily distracted is of dubious value,” retorted Methos, knowing his face betrayed his confusion, his infatuation. He found himself no more able to control his expression than he could his passion. “Not a minute ago your thoughts were all of Lucius Germanicus and the Watchers. Now they are all of my beauty. A minute from now they will be—”

 

“All of you again,” whispered Gabriel in his ear, “of how you are lord within the Blachernae and willing slave in my bed, of how you beg to please me and submit to me when I take you, of how you cry out in pleasure when I fill you and then plead for more.”

 

Methos managed, with a supreme effort of will, to maintain what remained of his composure. Grabbing his young friend’s arm, he hustled him through the jostling populace in the direction of Gabriel’s modest home. “Silence,” he rasped. “Not one more word on that subject, Scribe.”

 

“I love you,” murmured Gabriel, licking Methos’ ear tantalizingly.

 

Methos hastily stifled a groan of mingled exasperation and lust. “Have you lost all sense of discretion whatsoever?” he hissed.

 

“Tell me that you are mine.” Gabriel was almost panting; he put an arm about Methos in a manner that might possibly pass for simple friendship if a passer-by did not look too closely. “Tell me that you will give me your body again tonight.”

 

“I will give you a sound boxing about the ears if you do not stop this nonsense at once,” said Methos sternly, thankful for the flowing ceremonial court robes he was wearing.

 

Gabriel took Methos by the arms and whirled him playfully toward the little house in which he had taken rooms, pushing him against the stone wall to one side of the door, pressing his body against Methos’ provocatively. “Tell me you want me. Tell me you will submit to me.” Gabriel swallowed hard. “Tell me you love me, Methos.”

 

“I want you,” said Methos helplessly. God, the child was irresistible. “I love you, Gabriel.”

 

Gabriel leaned even closer, pinioning Methos against the wall tightly, as if he imagined that Methos wanted to escape. He was smiling. “That is well. But you forgot submission.”

 

Methos laughed delightedly; this was their favorite game. “I haven’t forgotten.”

 

Gabriel kissed him, there in the open street of the capital of the world, there where princes and barbarians and the elite of the Watcher corps could see them, and Methos returned the kiss passionately, not giving a damn at that moment who saw them or what the consequences might be. It had been centuries since he had felt this way. This young Watcher had shattered every defense he had attempted to erect against him; he felt helpless, giddy.

 

Young.

 

Gabriel released his mouth. “My room,” he said urgently.

 

Methos turned and moved through the door and up the rough stairs that led to Gabriel’s room; he could feel Gabriel behind him, hear his labored breathing. He fumbled feverishly with the latch and stepped into the dark room; the door had no sooner closed behind them than Gabriel pushed Methos flat on his back on the rough bed, yanked Methos’ robes open, covered Methos’ body with his own, and kissed him again.

 

Methos managed to draw a shaky breath when Gabriel finally lifted his head. He could just make out the young man’s face in the faint, reddish glow of the torchlight from the street below; he was smiling exultantly. Odd that he felt no sense of wounded pride in that, no sense of outrage in being the prize, the conquered. But he didn’t. “Well? Has your attention wavered yet again?”

 

Gabriel chuckled and shrugged out of his robes, kicking off his slippers. “No. Not in the slightest.” He ground his generously proportioned manhood against Methos to accentuate his point, and Methos gasped at the sensation. “You have my full attention. I enjoy looking at you.” Gabriel’s hands divested Methos of the last of his clothing. “I enjoy watching you being taken as much as I enjoy taking you. I’ve thought of nothing but you today, Methos. Even when I was arguing before the Council, all I could think of was you, here, giving yourself to me.”

 

“I humbly suggest to my master that his concentration is better employed in more weighty matters than the attentions of his bed-slave,” murmured Methos playfully.

 

“The attentions of my bed-slave are of vital interest to me,” said Gabriel hoarsely, pushing Methos’ legs apart.

 

“My master’s interests are mine,” breathed Methos, managing not to cry out as Gabriel’s hot, boyish hands abruptly seized his manhood. There would be no prolonged lovemaking tonight; Gabriel was ready to claim his prize. Methos took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax as his young lover slid one hand toward his opening.

 

“Always so willing, so wanton.” Gabriel was breathing harshly.

 

“Only for you,” whispered Methos, and it was true.

 

Gabriel pulled Methos toward him roughly, settling his legs over his shoulders. “I would kill any man who touched you like this.” One slender finger slipped into Methos’ anus, and Methos groaned in pleasure.

 

“No one…no one but you,” he gasped. He heard Gabriel groping for the small pot of oil on the table beside the bed.

 

“I want to kill all the men who had you before me,” growled Gabriel.

 

Methos couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly. “You…you would be too busy killing men to enjoy me, Gabriel.”

 

Gabriel growled again and slipped more fingers inside him; Methos cried out and lay gasping at the ceiling as Gabriel pressed against the walls of his passage, stretching him with something more than gentleness but less than brutality.

 

“I want to kill them all. I want to be the first man to take you. I want to see your first pain and your first pleasure. I want you to give up your virginity to me.”

 

“You are,” breathed Methos wildly. “I will. God, oh God, Gabriel, take me, take me now.”

 

“So beautiful,” breathed Gabriel, withdrawing his fingers and pulling Methos’ legs upward. “You were made for me, Methos. You’re mine.”

 

“I’m yours,” rasped Methos, feeling Gabriel’s oil-coated manhood probing his opening, bracing himself for the inevitable discomfort before the pleasure. Gabriel thrust deeply, violently, and Methos was unable to restrain a cry of surprise and pain that was almost a scream. Gabriel was usually gentler; his need must be great. The youngster had experienced frustration in every aspect of his life lately—every aspect but this.

 

“Shhhh, shhhh,” breathed Gabriel, his right hand circling Methos’ manhood, stroking it possessively. “Softly, now.” He continued to thrust into Methos, hard and hot, and Methos managed, with difficulty, to temper his cries. “Yes, yes,” crooned Gabriel, his body jerking with the force of his thrusts. “Just like that.”

 

“Yours….” Methos barely recognized his own voice.

 

“Yes. Mine. God, you’re as tight as the first time I took you.” Gabriel’s voice was equally unrecognizable, thick and coarse with passion. He shifted his angle slightly, accentuating both the discomfort and the pleasure. Methos groaned and clutched feebly at his lover’s arms. “I want to ride you all night. I want to make you come all night, again and again.”

 

“You may… ride your… mare to death, stallion,” gasped Methos.

 

“Never. Although… to kill you with pleasure … and watch you reawaken for more…would excite me.”

 

“Everything…excites you, lecher. Oh, God….” Methos arched upward as Gabriel’s organ brushed something inside him that made his mind turn inside out with delight. Few of the men who had taken him had bothered to find that spot, but Gabriel had never failed yet to stroke it until Methos was babbling and senseless.

 

“There,” murmured Gabriel triumphantly, pushing Methos to the bed and pinioning his arms there tightly. “Now we will see what you remember about submission.” He began hammering himself into that sweet spot again and again, laughing breathlessly.

 

Methos was incoherent and sobbing in seconds. God, there was nothing in the world like this, nothing. He would kill for Gabriel, die for Gabriel, a hundred times, a thousand. He was truly addicted, enslaved and enthralled by this beautiful boy. Methos came so violently that he couldn’t see. He clutched Gabriel’s arms, groaning and shuddering as hot semen splashed his abdomen and chest, but before he could so much as control his ragged breathing or recover his vision, Gabriel pulled out of him.

 

“No,” Methos moaned softly; that glory never lasted long enough. “Gabriel—”

 

Gabriel flipped Methos onto his stomach and spread his legs wide. “Hush,” he muttered thickly, his hands spreading Methos’ buttocks. “Your master…isn’t finished with you.”

 

Methos drew breath to reply, but was deprived of the capacity for coherent speech as Gabriel buried himself inside him in one strong thrust, then began a punishing, pounding rhythm, forcing his large organ into Methos at creative and occasionally painful angles, pressing the limits of Methos’ passage, sliding across Methos’ sweet spot just barely enough to make the discomfort endurable. Methos knew that Gabriel would never take a mortal lover like this. He was freed with Methos, freed from concern of injuring his lover, freed to satisfy his need. All Methos could do, all he wanted to do, was submit, whimpering or groaning with pain or pleasure at each adventurous thrust.

 

“I love you,” panted Gabriel, pushing Methos’ head down to the bed, pressing his chest to Methos’ back, grinding his manhood into Methos as he slowly rotated his hips. “Tell me you love me.”

 

“Love…you—” Methos choked on the last word as a spike of pleasure shot from his anus to his spine.

 

“I _will_ ride you all night,” rasped Gabriel, and Methos heartily believed it; he moaned softly, unable to speak. Incredibly, he was hard again. “I will tame you, ancient one.”

 

All Methos could manage in response was a broken groan.

 

“I shall be famous.” Gabriel’s tone, ragged as it was with passion, was mischievous. “Gabriel, mightiest of lovers, whom…even the great Methos cannot resist. The eldest of the Immortal race lives solely…to pleasure him. I shall be revered…as a…god.”

 

“You _are_ a god,” choked Methos. “Gabriel, please…please….”

 

“You beg so beautifully.” Gabriel’s harsh breath was hot against his ear. “Beg me, Methos. Beg me to come.”

 

“Come…please….”

 

“Beg me.” Gabriel showed no signs of fatigue; if anything, his thrusts became more powerful.

 

“_Please_!” Methos’ groan became a sob. “I beg of you, come, please come, please….”

 

Gabriel turned onto his side, bringing Methos with him, one arm holding Methos to him about the waist while the other slipped down to stroke Methos’ engorged manhood. “Insatiable,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”

 

“Come inside me,” gasped Methos, arching back against his lover. “Please, Master, please….”

 

“And obedient.” Gabriel was actually laughing, laughing even as Methos sensed that his lover was about to climax. “But you will come first.”

 

Methos groaned and leaned his head back to rest on Gabriel’s shoulder. “_Please…._”

 

“Come, Methos.” Gabriel hand slid vigorously, mercilessly, up and down his organ as he drove his own manhood deep inside Methos. “You are so beautiful when you come. Show me you belong to me.”

 

Methos exploded into orgasm for the second time, crying out wildly, concealing nothing of emotion or physical sensation, knowing that Gabriel wanted to see it all, needed to see it all. Gabriel joined him in his cries, shouting as he came inside him, and Methos rode the wave of the pulsing sensation of Gabriel’s organ spilling his seed inside him. It seemed to last for a long time, and when it finally ended, both lovers lay limply in their embrace, panting.

 

“God Almighty,” whispered Gabriel faintly. He kissed Methos’ shoulder and very gently eased himself out of his lover’s body. Methos clenched his teeth against the pain. Even an Immortal would take a few minutes to recover from the gloriously rough ride Gabriel had just given him. “Methos. Are you hurt?”

 

“No, I am exhausted,” temporized Methos teasingly. “My master has made good use of his slave’s limited resources.”

 

“Enough,” breathed Gabriel. He turned Methos in his arms, cradling him tenderly. “We both know who is truly master here.”

 

Methos smiled and reached up to stroke the golden hair. “Yes. You are. I am content.”

 

“Methos—”

 

“It is a rare master who can make a man cherish his slavery.”

 

Gabriel’s eyes filled. “Tell me you cherish _me_, Methos, and I will be content also.”

 

Methos draped one arm around the young man’s neck and drew him down. “I cherish you, Gabriel,” he whispered. He pressed his mouth and body against Gabriel’s hungrily. He wanted nothing else but to stay here, in this bed, with this man. Every other desire, ambition and earthly consideration was eclipsed in that moment, and nothing could distract him from it…except the signature of an Immortal. Methos gasped and pulled his mouth away from Gabriel.

 

“Methos?” Gabriel tensed, holding Methos tightly. “What is it?”

 

Methos broke away from his lover’s arms and dove off the bed, snatching his sword from his discarded robes. He had barely laid his hand on the hilt when the door to Gabriel’s room burst open; the harsh light of torches danced madly on every surface. One tall figure stood framed in the doorway, but to his surprise, Methos could see others behind it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabriel pluck his dagger from his discarded clothing and advance on the intruder. “Gabriel,” he said sharply. “Don’t interfere.”

 

“You are Marcus Gaius.” The Immortal’s voice was deep; he spoke Latin with a vaguely Teutonic accent.

 

“And you are?” Methos’ mind raced frantically. Marcus Gaius?

 

The stranger lifted his sword. “I am Nathan of Mainz.”

 

A complete stranger. Marcus Gaius had led the life of an intellectual dilettante for the majority of his brief existence; he hadn’t faced anyone using that name. The only Immortals who had known him as Marcus Gaius were…. Methos felt his stomach turn over. This wasn’t a challenge. “Gabriel, get behind me.”

 

Gabriel shot Methos an incredulous look, but stepped back until he was standing at Methos’ shoulder.

 

“You will both come with us,” said Nathan softly. “My master has business with you.”

 

“Good God,” breathed Gabriel, horrified comprehension flooding his expression.

 

Methos shoved Gabriel behind him and raised his sword, knowing it was hopeless and not caring. “We have other plans this evening. Tell Lucius Germanicus to take his war elsewhere.”

 

“My master wages war where and with whom he sees fit.” Nathan stepped forward, sword poised. “You have betrayed my master’s trust and must face justice.”

 

“Justice? Your master is a coward and a butcher,” spat Gabriel. “I have known paid assassins with more honor.”

 

Nathan’s eyes flashed dangerously. “A sheep bound for slaughter may bleat as it will.”

 

Methos’ mouth went dry. Gabriel. Gabriel, his beautiful boy, torn apart, slowly, and delivered to the Council on the exquisite silver dishes that had once graced the table of Darius of Rome…no. “I’ll come with you,” he heard himself saying. “If you leave Gabriel here.” Methos heard Gabriel’s sharp intake of breath, felt him trying to pass; he flung an arm across his friend’s chest to stop him.

 

“My master does not bargain, Marcus Gaius.” Nathan lunged without warning, driving his sword deep into Methos’ chest; Methos choked and sank to his knees as the men waiting in the corridor stormed inside, knocking him onto his back and dragging Gabriel from his side.

 

“_Gabriel!_” The howl was borne by the last bloody breath left in his lungs; he heard Gabriel struggling with the mortals outside of his range of vision, screaming his name.

 

Nathan bent over him, raising his sword for another blow. “Do not be concerned, Marcus Gaius. You will see him again. You will see much of him. You will watch him die.” He drove his sword into Methos’ abdomen and through his body, pinning him to the floor like an insect to a card; Methos was vaguely aware that he was screaming when he died.

 

***

 

 

“He made you watch.” Joe’s voice was no more than a whisper.

 

“Yes.” Methos kept his eyes shut, unable to endure the horror he knew he’d see in Joe’s face. “And when he was done, he had Gabriel taken away and laid me down in his blood, and started doing the same things to me. The same things exactly, in the same order. So that I’d know what was coming. He’d become a master in those six hundred years.”

 

Methos felt Joe’s hand rest on his forearm and took a deep breath. “But Joanna had finally tracked him down. She led an assault on the house Lucius was using. It was a hell of a battle; the Order and Lucius’ soldiers were pretty evenly matched in numbers. A fire got started somehow, and the smoke made it almost impossible to tell friend from enemy. Some of the Order were killed by their own.”

 

Joe’s grip tightened around Methos’ arm. “So it took them a while to get to you.”

 

“Yeah,” said Methos unsteadily. “A servant came to tell Nathan and Lucius that the house was under attack. Nathan killed him for interrupting, and…continued.”

 

“Jesus.” Joe’s voice shook.

 

“You have to understand,” continued Methos, feeling weirdly detached, “Lucius had overcome every attacker and eluded every adversary for six centuries. He couldn’t conceive that he’d become overconfident and gone too far this time, that his soldiers would fail him. But they did. The battle eventually reached the cellars, where I was being held.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I’m not precisely certain. It sounded as if there were at least twenty swordsmen around me.”

 

“Sounded.” There was dread in Joe’s voice. “Were you blindfolded?”

 

Methos hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Yeah,” he lied. There were some things that were better left untold, especially to a listener with a heart as big as Joe Dawson’s. “Couldn’t see a thing. But I heard Nathan fighting off half a dozen of the Order to protect Lucius. He killed one, too—an Immortal. The quickening nearly fried us all. I found out later that it was Gregory of Venice. I think you have an open file on him.”

 

“Consider it closed,” said Joe huskily, and Methos wondered if his friend had put two and two together after all. Joe cleared his throat. “The Watchers outside assumed it was Lucius’ quickening, damn them to hell. Sloppy fieldwork and one hell of a assumption.”

 

“Not given the circumstances. By the time they arrived, Joanna’s people were already inside. They had no way of knowing that there were other Immortals present, and the house burned to the ground, leaving no evidence to the contrary. The killings stopped immediately afterward.”

 

“Because Lucius was captured.”

 

“It took six members of the Order to drag Lucius and Nathan out of that burning house, all the while kicking and screaming bloody vengeance on everyone responsible. Joanna and Joshua carried me out, and nearly got crushed under burning wreckage doing it.”

 

“But you were found alone.”

 

“Nathan broke free and managed to get his hands on a knife.”

 

“Shit. That is one dangerous man.”

 

“Joanna and Joshua had to set me down to help deal with him. By the time they came back, the Watchers had found me and taken me to a nearby safe house—presumably to die. Joanna found me a few hours later. I wrote my resignation and report on Gabriel. And then ‘Stephanos’ disappeared.”

 

“Jesus,” muttered Joe, his fingers still curled tightly around Methos’ forearm, as if ‘Adam’ might disappear too. “Jesus.” He lapsed into silence.

 

Methos listened carefully for any sound on deck, but heard nothing but the hum of the engines and the soft splash of water against the hull. He had no doubt that Joanna would deal with MacLeod with entirely too little bloodshed and send him back here. Or that Richie would give him some sort of Reader’s Digest condensed version of recent and ancient events, which may or may not contain all or indeed any salient points. Which, of course, would provoke MacLeod into a rousing, magnificent and completely stupid display of the righteous indignation that was the idiot Scot’s raison d’etre. An explosion of furiously raised voices from somewhere on deck shattered the peaceful silence.

 

Methos sighed loudly. Being right all the time took so much of the enjoyable suspense out of life.

Joe echoed the sigh. “Guess Richie told him.”

 

“Really? What makes you say that?”

 

“I hope the kid can handle him. Mac’s never wanted to hear a bad word about Darius. And he’s not exactly at his most stable at the moment.”

 

“You astonish me, Joseph.”

 

“What do you think he’ll do?”

 

“Cut my head off, probably,” said Methos wearily. “Not a bad solution, actually. Takes care of his nightmares and my bar tab in one fell swoop.”

 

“Very funny.”

 

“And then he and Lucius could go shopping for silver platters.”

 

“Jesus, Adam, will you knock that shit off?”

 

The fear in Joe’s voice cut through Methos’ exhaustion, and he swore silently. He patted Joe’s hand, which was till clutching his arm tightly. “Just kidding,” he said softly, not entirely certain of the truth of that statement.

 

“Not funny!”

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re getting through this alive whether you like it or not,” growled Joe. “Do you hear me?”

 

Methos smiled faintly. “Yeah, Dad,” he said gently. “I hear you.”

 

The angry voices from on deck erupted again, and the door burst open. Methos instinctively reached for his sword, remembering only as he did so that Duncan had taken it. He swung to his feet and pulled his gun from his coat, taking aim as Duncan charged through the door and down the steps. As he caught sight of Methos, the younger Immortal froze in surprise with Methos’ sword in one hand and what appeared to be a candy bar in the other.

 

“Adam, don’t!” gasped Joe in alarm.

 

Methos didn’t lower the weapon. He stared at Duncan down the barrel of his gun, trying to summon the will to resist shooting the idiot. It had been so enjoyable the last time. MacLeod should probably be shot on a regular basis.

 

Richie appeared at the top of the steps carrying Joe’s suitcases and guitar. He took one look at the tableau before him and paused on the landing, then favored Duncan with his most impertinent grin. “Come on, Mac. If he wants the candy that bad, just give it to him.”

 

Methos heard Joe groan and mutter something entirely unintelligible and almost certainly obscene. Methos managed, with difficulty, to keep a straight face. The absurdity of the situation appealed to him in a masochistic sort of way, and Junior made a great Greek chorus.

 

Duncan cast Richie a dirty look over his shoulder, then turned back to Methos. “What is this garbage you’ve been telling Richie about Darius? And who the hell is that lunatic in my pilot house?”

 

“Mac, for once just sit down and listen,” said Joe angrily.

 

“She’s a friend,” sighed Methos, ignoring the first question. He reluctantly lowered his weapon.

 

“A friend,” repeated Duncan skeptically.

 

Richie rolled his eyes briefly and came down the steps. “Yeah, you know, Mac. Friend. Like, someone who occasionally cuts you a break?”

 

“That would be a lot easier if I knew what the hell was going on,” said Duncan grimly.

 

Richie deposited the luggage next to the sofa and regarded Duncan soberly. “Maybe it’s not supposed to be easy all the time,” he said softly.

 

Methos shot him a startled look as he put away his gun, but Richie dropped into a chair with his usual graceless air, any hint of something other than the smart-ass kid vanishing as quickly as it had come. Methos scowled. He was going to have to ascertain exactly how much time the kid had spent at St. Julien’s. He turned his head to see Duncan’s color rise slightly as he stepped forward to offer Methos his sword.

 

“Sorry,” Duncan muttered.

 

Methos accepted the weapon and slipped it back into his coat, restraining his urge to make some cutting remark about the mouths of babes. He suspected that this night would be long enough without setting MacLeod off any more than necessary. He sat beside Joe again. “Forget it.” He eyed the chocolate that Duncan still held in his hand. “Do you want that?”

 

“You were saying something about grasping priorities?” said Joe drily, as Duncan tossed Methos the candy with the air of a man at the end of his rope.

 

“Hey, hey! Save some for us, geezer,” protested Richie, as Methos deliberately shoved half the bar into his mouth.

 

“Age before...whatever,” Methos said around the rapidly melting wad of chocolate, enjoying the seething frustration in Duncan’s face, then glanced at Richie. “What did you tell him?”

 

“He told me some sick fantasy about Darius torturing—”

 

“I asked Richie!” snapped Methos in irritation.

 

“Mac,” said Joe evenly, “Sit down and shut up. _Now_.”

 

“Everything you’ve told us, give or take a nightmare,” answered Richie soberly, his gaze following Duncan as he crossed the room and flung himself into a chair. “Taking it well, isn’t he?”

 

“About as well as I expected him to. Listen, MacLeod. Your personal deification of Darius does not alter the fact that he was one of the most successful butchers Europe has ever seen—”

 

“_You_ accuse _Darius_ of butchery?” snapped Duncan, clutching the arms of his chair. “_You?_”

 

“Why not?” returned Methos coldly. “I can think of no one living or dead better qualified than myself to make such an appraisal. Let me assure you, MacLeod, as a consummate butcher myself—”

 

“Adam,” grated Joe.

 

“—and having seen your precious god’s work first-hand, that his was the superior talent. No one drank the blood of innocents with as much style as Darius of Rome.”

 

“God,” muttered Richie, blanching.

 

“You’re a liar,” rasped Duncan, poised to jump out of his chair. “Darius was a soldier. When he killed, it was in war.”

 

Methos laughed mirthlessly. “War? God, MacLeod, what would you know of war? Do you imagine that the little exercises in state-sponsored vandalism you’ve taken part in constitute warfare? They’re nothing. They’re laughable. Pretty little affairs with rules of conduct and justification by moral imperative, all over before they really begin. Do you think that _that_ is the sort of war Darius waged, MacLeod?”

 

“Mac,” Joe cut in quickly. “Listen to me. We’re talking about fifth century Europe. Rome had fallen. Everything had gone to hell, complete chaos. There was virtually no civilian authority. Darius’ army had no sanction from any government for their actions. This wasn’t war in the way you think of it.”

 

Duncan cast Joe a genuinely horrified, helpless look. “God, Joe, you knew what Darius was. He was the best of us.”

 

“Yes, he was. When _you_ knew him.”

 

“You _believe_ this?”

 

“I don’t have to believe it,” said Joe in a sharper tone. “I’ve read Darius’ chronicles. I _know_ it’s true. You want details? I’ve got ’em, Mac. You want to hear about the rapes, the torching of villages, the tens of thousands killed? You want to hear about Darius drinking the blood of children while their parents were forced to watch?”

 

“No,” faltered Duncan, visibly shaken.

 

Methos flinched involuntarily at the pain in the man’s face. Darius’ fall from grace had been inevitable, of course, but the timing couldn’t possibly have been worse. What would this do to MacLeod in his present state? Methos found himself wishing, despite all the annoyance that this blind worship of Darius had caused him, that Duncan could have his god back again.

 

Methos knew he could never be an apologist, for Darius or even for himself, but perspective was another matter. “MacLeod, Darius was born in a time when war was the only accepted way of life. Wars lasted for centuries. Wars lasted so long that generations of mortals were born and died knowing nothing else. So long that some _Immortals_ knew nothing else.”

 

Duncan turned to stare at him, eyes bright with tears and sudden comprehension, and Methos felt his guts twist at the sight. It required all of his shredded control to maintain his composure in the face of such devastation. Without a word, Duncan rose and bolted from the hold, leaving the door to the deck open behind him.

 

“Oh, God,” muttered Richie. “God, this’ll kill him.”

 

Methos hugged his knees to his chest and rested his forehead there, for once ignoring the offered comfort of Joe’s hand on his shoulder. “You could be right.”

 

 

***

 

 

Duncan stumbled onto the deck and stood there for a few moments, gulping in the night air and wiping the tears from his face.

 

God Almighty. Darius. And Methos. Had known nothing else.

 

It was impossible. Neither of those men was capable of the horrors attributed to them. Yet both of them had committed them. How? Who were they? _What_ were they? How could he have been so wrong about both of them? _Had_ he been wrong? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. The whole damn world was wrong now.

 

_Murder and forgiveness…._

Could a man be both inhuman monster and loving friend? How? How could such diametrically opposed forces find a conduit in one man? Men had natures, predispositions that could not be altered. A murderer might forbear to kill for a day … but he was still a murderer.

 

Wasn’t he?

 

_Things were different, MacLeod. I was different. The whole world was different._

What constituted a murderer in the Bronze Age? Or in the Dark Ages? Darius had been accorded the respect and titles due a great general—for drinking the blood of children. His contemporaries hadn’t found that incongruous. They had expected nothing else from a warrior-prince. Had Ian MacLeod done such a thing in battle a thousand years later, he would have been denounced and exiled. Because the world in which Ian MacLeod had raised his son had drawn a line between legitimate warfare and murder—a line that had not existed in Darius’ time.

 

Or in Methos’.

 

Duncan leaned back against the side of the pilothouse, staring unseeing at the right bank of the Seine as it slid slowly by. His reaction to Methos’ past had been unjust—as unjust as his knee-jerk reaction to Darius’ past had just been. He’d judged their actions without benefit of the context of their time. He’d judged his friends as if they’d grown up alongside him in Glenfinnan. They hadn’t. He wished they had. But they hadn’t. They’d grown up in a world more brutal and soul-killing than anything Duncan MacLeod had ever experienced; and yet somehow, through strength, or conviction, or miraculous epiphany, had managed to become men he loved and was proud to call friend.

 

Duncan knew that he had understood all this once. How had he lost that understanding? Three centuries ago, when Hideo had asked him for his assistance to commit seppuku, he had respected his friend’s wishes and honored that request, even though it challenged his personal beliefs. How many times since then had friends or acquaintances who had transgressed Duncan’s moral code been met with, if not his forgiveness, then at least his acceptance? And yet he had not forgiven Methos.

 

_What I’ve done, you can’t forgive._

Even now, Duncan could feel his anger rising at the thought of what Methos had done millennia ago. Why? He could accept Darius’ transgressions. It hurt him, but he understood it now. Why could he not find it within himself to forgive Methos? Why had the revelation of Methos’ past wounded him so deeply, infuriated him to the extent that he was prepared to end a friendship that meant so much to him? Why?

 

Duncan blinked, realizing that the barge was slowing, and peered ahead into the darkness to catch sight of several barges moored side by side. He watched, impressed despite himself, as his new pilot brought his barge alongside the others and cut the engines. He hastily snatched up a rope and moored the aft end to the neighboring barge, then glanced up to see that Joanna was doing the same at the bow. A soft trilling interrupted her; cursing softly, she fished her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and started speaking, to Duncan’s bewilderment, in Latin.

 

“Tasha? Yes, and you and Jochen? Thank God. There was no time to contact you. It was Methos. Yes, I know. I’ll explain later. We’re on MacLeod’s barge on the Left Bank near the Petit Pont. Gather as many of us as you can and get here quickly.” She hung up and shoved the phone back into her pocket.

 

“Who are Tasha and Jochen?”

 

Joanna glanced up, then rose and approached him slowly. “Friends. We’ll need their help. You weren’t down there very long.”

 

“No,” said Duncan in a strained tone. He cleared his throat. “Nice job.” He indicated the mooring. “Good camouflage.”

 

Joanna nodded, then studied him for a moment. “You should have given Methos a chance to tell his story, Duncan. It’s one you need to hear.”

 

“I’ve heard enough,” said Duncan raggedly.

 

“Darius would want you to hear this story and understand it.”

 

“Right now I don’t give a damn what Darius would want.” Duncan heard his voice rise and break; he turned away to stare at the far riverbank.

 

“Ah.” Joanna fell silent for a moment. “Darius wanted to tell you, Duncan.”

 

“What…what the hell would you know about what he wanted?” Duncan turned to challenge her, grateful for the opportunity to vent his grief-induced rage. “What the hell do you know about Darius, or me, or anyone I give a damn about? Except Methos, of course. You’re Methos’ friend, and that isn’t much of a recommendation. Every friend of Methos I’ve met has been a murdering bastard.”

 

“Yourself included,” returned Joanna in a strangely mild tone. “Yes? Did Rosemont commit suicide, or Sean Burns leap willingly into your blade?”

 

Duncan recoiled, the image of Sean’s horrified expression the moment before he died rising once again to haunt him. “I was….” He struggled for an adjective. “Insane,” he said finally. “Insane.”

 

Joanna shrugged. “Define sane.”

 

“I wasn’t myself!”

 

“Define self. We’re Immortals, Duncan. We live many lives. We are many selves.”

 

“I have _one_ self,” retorted Duncan with certainty. “I’m Duncan MacLeod—”

 

“Of the Clan MacLeod,” finished Joanna. “God knows you say so often enough. Who are you trying to convince?”

 

“That’s who I am!”

 

“You’re young, Duncan. You’ve not lived one-tenth as many lives as I. And yet even you carry other selves with you. The man who killed a guiltless Rosemont and the man who killed his friend Sean still walk with you inside your skin.”

 

Duncan felt his certainty crumble and the short hairs rise on the back of his neck, and he peered through the pre-dawn darkness at the woman beside him. He was certain he had never met her before, and yet something of the familiar seared his nerves. “I don’t understand,” he faltered.

 

Joanna tore her gaze from the right bank and glanced up at him with another shrug. “Sure you do. To deny what you were is to deny what you are.”

 

Duncan tried to respond and couldn’t; the often-felt and achingly powerful sense of Darius’ presence stilled his tongue for several heartbeats. The phrase was Darius’; it was one of many such that Duncan had committed to memory, pondered, incorporated into who he thought he was. He’d thought he’d understood those words—until now. “You knew Darius?”

 

Joanna smiled wryly. “That’s a more complicated question than you realize. Yes, I believe I knew him.”

 

“Long?”

 

“A hundred years as enemy. Fifteen hundred as friend.”

 

“I don’t understand,” repeated Duncan wearily.

 

“Do you want to?”

 

Duncan regarded her silently. Odd how anyone who’d spent any time with Darius started sounding like him. He’d even seen it in Richie at times. Darius’ power had lain in his ability to touch the core of essential human compassion, to encourage and nurture it within those around him. This had bound him—did bind him—to his friends and students more closely than blood ties, oaths or simple friendship ever could, and left the unmistakable mark of his great spirit on those he had left behind.

 

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”

 

***

 

 

“Maybe I should go up and make sure he’s okay.” Richie’s voice broke the strained silence.

 

“Give him a few, Rich.” Joe’s grip tightened on Methos’ shoulder. “He’ll be all right. God knows he’s been through worse and pulled through.”

 

“Yeah,” said Methos bleakly, sitting up to rub his eyes. He looked up sharply at the sound of the door opening; Duncan and Joanna were talking softly as they entered. Methos froze as Duncan met and held his gaze for a couple heartbeats; and his heart twisted unexpectedly at the crooked little smile that touched Duncan’s face.

 

“I’ll make some coffee,” murmured Duncan. “I’d offer you guys a beer, but it, uh…seems to be missing.”

 

Methos peered at his friend uncertainly. He hadn’t heard that gentle, wry humor in a long time.

 

“Coffee would be good,” answered Joe, with raised eyebrows. “Thanks, Mac.”

 

“It’ll just be a minute,” continued Duncan, disappearing into the kitchen.

 

“Have a seat,” said Richie, hastily rising from the sofa. “I’ll give Mac a hand with the coffee.”

 

Methos extended his hand toward Joanna, and the woman smiled as she crossed the room to take it as she sat beside him. Richie disappeared into the kitchen.

 

“I just spoke to Tasha,” said Joanna softly. “Help will be here soon.”

 

“Tell me what happened,” said Methos, as gently as exhaustion would permit. “We’ve had a strange conversation with a Watcher named Shapiro tonight.”

 

“Ah.” Joanna looked away for a moment, then forced a laugh. “What did he say?”

 

“Among other things, that Joshua is dead.” Methos felt blind rage rise in him again as Joanna nodded mutely, eyes bright. “Was it Shapiro?”

 

“That’s what one of his men told us.”

 

“His _men_?” Joe’s eyes widened. “What men?”

 

“Tell us what happened from the beginning, _bati_.” Methos put an arm around her shoulder; something in her face made her look like the child she hadn’t been in centuries.

 

“Joshua went into Istanbul for supplies five days ago,” Joanna began unsteadily. “He didn’t come back to the estate. By the next morning, half the Order was in the streets of Istanbul searching for him. But he was nowhere to be found. I was certain he’d been challenged. Challenged and taken. But it was worse.” Her voice gave out and she cleared her throat. “Two nights later, the safe house was attacked.”

 

“By whom?”

 

Joanna shrugged. “Drug thugs from the streets of Istanbul. They were poorly trained, but they were armed with automatic weapons as well as swords. And they outnumbered us significantly. We were not prepared for such an assault. _I _was not prepared.”

 

“There was no way you could have anticipated this, Jo.”

 

“I lost half my people, mortals and Immortals alike,” Joanna said sharply. “Another dozen are maimed for life. Lucius and Nathan were taken. I have failed in every conceivable way.”

 

“Jo—”

 

“They left Joshua’s head on a spike at the gate.” Joanna drew in a shaky breath. “They left my husband’s head on a _spike!” _Methos heard an anguished curse break from Joe. “God only knows what this monster did to him to make him speak, _aba. _You knew Joshua.”

 

“Yes,” said Methos quietly. “Don’t think about that now, Jo.”

 

“We managed to capture one of them alive. He said that a man called Shapiro had hired him. He described the Watcher tattoo on his wrist precisely.”

 

 “Jesus.” Joe’s tone was despairing.

 

“Don’t you start, either,” snarled Methos, turning enough to look at his friend. “You are not responsible for that lunatic’s actions!”

 

“I’m sorry,” grated Joe, leaning over enough to look at Joanna. “I’m sorry one of us took him from you. I know that doesn’t mean much right now. If there’s anything I can do to make it mean something, I’ll do it.”

 

“Dammit, Joe, this wasn’t your fault!”

 

“Tell that to Joshua,” muttered Joe.

 

“Methos is right,” said Joanna quietly. “This man is not sane. The Watchers are no more responsible for his actions than they are for the actions of Lucius.”

 

“Listen to her,” growled Methos. “So help me God, Joe, at the first sign of heroics I will break your guitar over your head.”

 

Joe snorted and leaned back; the struggle to regain his composure was plainly visible. “Do you see a white hat on me, pal?”

 

“Constantly,” snapped Methos irritably. “Between you and MacLeod it’s a damned wild west show.”

 

Joanna’s soft, rueful laughter surprised him; he turned to glare at her. “You love him,” she said in ancient Greek.

 

“He’s a pestilence,” growled Methos in the same language.

 

“And the man with the lovely brown eyes,” pursued Joanna with a sharpening gaze, “who looks at you as if you’ve broken his heart? Is he a pestilence?”

 

Disconcerted, Methos turned to see Duncan appear, carrying a tray full of coffee mugs. Broken Duncan’s heart? Was that what he’d done? Methos tore his gaze from Duncan, confused. Richie was at Duncan’s heels, carrying a small box of what appeared to be cookies. Both were grim-faced; they’d obviously overheard the first part of the conversation.

 

“He is ten thousand years of pestilence,” replied Methos in his most acidic tone, refusing to meet Joanna’s all-too-observant eyes. “And your delicacy forbids any description of the deeply revolting nature of that child.”

 

Joanna started laughing again, despite the tears in her eyes. “You old fraud,” she said in English, patting his cheek affectionately.

 

Methos sighed resignedly.

 

“You two want to share with the class?” Richie glared as he ripped open the box of cookies and wedged several into his hand, then slapped Duncan on the arm and headed toward the door. “I’ll be up on deck, Mac.”

 

“Thanks, Rich. Shout if you see anything.” Duncan set the tray down and handed a mug to Joe. “It’ll have to be black, I’m afraid.”

 

“Thanks, Mac.” Joe lifted the mug to his lips with a grateful expression and a jerk of the head toward Methos and Joanna. “I think we’ve been insulted.”

 

“Count on it,” returned Duncan, but he was smiling.

 

Methos hastily leaned over to pick up a mug. He froze as Duncan suddenly reached out and twitched open Methos’ coat.

 

“That was bad,” said Duncan quietly. “Are you healed?”

 

“Yes. No problem,” replied Methos quickly, cursing inwardly as he stammered in surprise. Damn the man! Now what?

 

“Get that off. I’ll get you a clean shirt.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” muttered Methos, standing to remove his coat and the tattered, bloody t-shirt. He saw Duncan’s eyes narrow in an anger that wasn’t directed at him, saw Joe close his eyes and look away, and glanced down at the dried blood and barely-healed wounds that covered his chest and stomach.

 

Duncan wordlessly turned toward the dresser, and pulled a clean sweatshirt out of an open drawer. When he turned back again, his eyes were very bright. He handed Methos the shirt. “Who did that?”

 

“Nathan of Mainz. And the rest of Lucius’ assassins,” answered Joanna in a quiet voice, as Methos struggled into the sweatshirt, grateful for the opportunity to hide his face for a few seconds.

 

“Nathan?”

 

Methos yanked his head through the collar of the sweatshirt at the sound of naked shock in Duncan’s voice to find Duncan staring at him, white-faced.

 

“Lucius’ right-hand man. You’ve heard of him?” Joe looked surprised.

 

“Yes,” said Duncan hollowly, his gaze locked with Methos’. Methos found himself unable to look away; he became slowly aware that he was holding his breath, and released the air in his lungs slowly. Damn. Duncan’s dream. Exactly how much had he seen? “Does he by any chance call Lucius ‘Master’?”

 

“Always,” said Joanna, her voice sharp.

 

Duncan nodded, his eyes hardening. “Then I know everything I need to know about both of them. Except where they are.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” stammered Methos, more confused by the look in Duncan’s eyes than by any danger he had faced in the last twenty-four hours. “MacLeod, if you’re thinking—”

 

“I’m thinking that Lucius is overdue for a challenge.”

 

Methos laughed; he couldn’t help himself. “Mac. God. Have you understood anything we’ve told you?”

 

Duncan flushed slightly. “What is there to understand? They’re Immortals.”

 

“They’re not,” said Joanna quietly. “Not as you understand the word.”

 

“Excuse me?” Duncan’s expression was blank.

 

“Mac, Lucius doesn’t play the Game. He’s never played it. He’s never taken a head in his life,” said Methos, unaccountably moved to gentleness.

 

“Never?” Duncan’s astonishment was palpable.

 

“He plays his own game,” muttered Joe darkly.

 

“He’s not alone. There are a growing number of Immortals who don’t play the Game, for one reason or another.” Joanna eyed Duncan soberly. “Lucius’ perversion aside, it’s a positive development. Darius always hoped that the cult of the One would lose its appeal in time.”

 

Methos started in recognition at the phrase.

 

“_Cult?_” Duncan progressed from astonishment to shock.

 

“Are you so fond of the Game, then?”

 

“Fond of it? No. It’s senseless. But I certainly never thought of it as a cult.”

 

“And yet Darius could remember a time when that’s all it was.”

 

“Darius remembered no such thing,” snarled Methos, stung. “Those memories were never his.”

 

“Very well.” Joanna’s voice was gentle. “Sebastian could remember such a time. He was horrified by the growth of the Game. He called it genocide by attrition.”

 

“At any rate, the only quickening Nathan’s ever taken was an accident.” Methos abruptly changed the subject, unable to endure any more, and shrugged back into his coat. Feeling weak in the knees, he sank toward the sofa, surprised when Duncan caught him by the arm and eased him into the cushions, even more surprised when Duncan sat on the floor at Methos’ feet.

 

“Lucius was insane by the time of his first death,” Joanna continued in a subdued tone, following Methos’ lead, her keen gaze searching his face again. “And Nathan swore allegiance to Lucius before he knew what an Immortal was. Neither have any experience with other Immortals.”

 

“It’s past time they did. They have to be stop—” Duncan stopped mid-word and looked up at Methos with a dismayed expression.

 

Methos felt his breath catch in his throat. What was this? Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, doubting his judgment? Methos nearly laughed aloud at the irony of the role reversal, and his own hypocrisy. He’d labored under the unshakable conviction that Lucius and Nathan must die for almost a thousand years, who the hell had he been to condemn Duncan for judging others? And how had he managed to forget all this? Methos briefly considered the possibility that he was going senile.

 

“They must be _recaptured_.” Joanna was firm.

 

“Jo, if I have to choose between anyone on this boat and Lucius Germanicus, you know who’s going to die,” snapped Methos. “Mac is right. They have to be stopped, and I’m not in the mood to be fastidious about my methods.”

 

“Neither am I,” said Joe grimly. “Apart from the fact that I’d like to whack the guy for personal reasons, there’s this to consider. If he isn’t put out of his misery, a lot more Watchers will die, and Shapiro will have his precious war after all. Because the Watchers won’t take being hunted again. They’ll fight back, and they won’t worry about collateral damage. I guarantee you it will spiral out of control.”

 

“I should have killed him,” said Duncan bleakly.

 

“I should have let you,” muttered Joe.

 

“Killing isn’t the answer. I will not break my word to Darius, _aba_.” Joanna’s voice was tempered steel. “I will not break the trust.”

 

“And I will not lose anyone else I care about.” Methos kept his voice even with difficulty. “Including you. Trust be damned.”

 

“Darius couldn’t possibly have anticipated this,” cut in Joe urgently. “Think about it, Joanna. You saw what Lucius did to Methos in Constantinople. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, he’d have wound up on platters like the rest of them. Are you ready to risk that bastard doing it again?”

 

Methos felt Duncan’s arm stiffen against his knee and looked down to find Duncan staring up at him with a horrified expression.

 

“There’s no knowing what Darius did or didn’t anticipate,” said Joanna quietly. “But any risk to Methos is unacceptable. If I had had my way, he would be hundreds of miles from here by now.”

 

“You stopped to warn me,” said Duncan in a stunned voice. “This maniac is looking for you, and you stopped to warn _me? _My God, Methos, are you out of your mind?”

 

“Probably,” said Methos quietly. Succumbing to exhaustion, he leaned his elbows on his knees and lowered his head to cradle it in his hands. “But it’s not just me he’s looking for, Mac. Everyone in my life is a target now. Joe. Rich. Amanda. You. You were right. I’ve endangered every one of you. I should have blown town the minute I heard Lucius’ name. He would have followed me. He would have spent the rest of his life, or mine, following me, and he’d have forgotten all about all of you. But I didn’t. You were right.”

 

“Jesus. Adam,” muttered Joe.

 

“No.” Methos felt warm hands curl around his face and lift his head; he stared into Duncan’s pale face in surprise. “I wasn’t right. I was drunk, and half-crazy, and a damned ungrateful bastard,” said Duncan unevenly. “Everything I said was a lie.”

 

Methos realized after the first few seconds of staring into those lovely brown eyes that he had been holding his breath; he let it go slowly, wondering why his heart was hammering against his ribcage as if it wanted to escape the confines of his chest. “Not everything,” he croaked. “I do have a very healthy interest in saving my own skin.”

 

“Not at that price. I know that.” Duncan withdrew his hands gently. “I’m sorry, Methos.”

 

Methos closed his eyes against the earnestness in Duncan’s face. “So am I. I said things I shouldn’t have.”

 

Duncan let loose with a small sigh of what seemed to be relief. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just con—”

 

Several metallic clangs accompanied by the signature of an Immortal shattered the quiet of the moment; Methos suddenly found himself on his feet.

 

“Mac!” Richie’s voice rose in alarm.

 

“What the _hell_?” Joe started out of his brood and struggled to stand, yanking his gun from his jacket.

 

“Give me that,” said Duncan grimly. “Methos, stay with Joe.” He snatched the gun from Joe’s hand and disappeared through the door to the deck before Methos could draw breath to protest; Joanna disappeared after him, sword drawn.

 

“Great. Now you’ve got MacLeod doing it,” snapped Methos to Joe, drawing his gun.

 

Joe snorted and gave him a wry look. “You’re kidding, right? He’s been doing that for four hundred years, pal. That guy could out-nanny all of us put together.”

 

“Just stay put,” growled Methos over his shoulder, vaulting up the steps to the door. He had no sooner stuck his head outside the door than Joanna dragged him down to the deck, just barely in time to avoid being struck by a hurtling projectile of some sort. It hit the bulkhead with a reverberating clank to be followed by others in rapid succession. He could hear Richie at the bow, swearing as several more impacted in his vicinity.

 

“What the hell?” Methos strained to see the deck of the neighboring barge, but the darkness defeated his attempt.

 

Duncan, huddled a few feet away, glared at him furiously. “I told you to stay below!”

 

“Get knotted,” retorted Methos, thoroughly irritated. “Who are they, Jo?”

 

“Damned if I know.” Joanna picked up the offending object and examined it for a moment. “Ah,” she said mildly. “Have either of you annoyed any of the local grocers recently?” She tossed it over to Methos, who peered at it in confusion for a moment. It was a can of soup.

 

“Chicken noodle,” observed Duncan. “Good for what ails you.”

 

“Amanda!” hissed Methos in infuriated relief, tossing the can aside and leaping to his feet. Another can whizzed past his head, but he held his ground. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Not so funny now, is it?” Amanda’s shrill voice could be heard half a mile away. “What’s the matter, did I break up your little party?”

 

Methos strode to the side of the barge and leaned over as far as he could without falling overboard; Duncan quickly joined him. “Lower your voice and get over here before you get us all killed!”

 

“Time to move again,” said Joanna grimly, rising. “Shut her up and get her on board. I’ll unmoor us.” She moved quickly in the direction of the bow.

 

“How. Dare. You.” Amanda appeared out of the dark to lean over the side, as furious as Methos had ever seen her. “I shopped for an hour.”

 

“Amanda—”

 

“I was trying to do a good thing here, Methos. And what do _you_ do? You pull some pathetic prepubescent practical joke—”

 

“Will you shut up?” Methos heard someone laughing behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Joe, leaning against the bulkhead, cackling. “Get back inside!”

 

“Or what?” Joe was laughing so hard he could barely speak. “Amanda will bludgeon me with Chef Boyardee?”

 

“Enough.” Duncan reached over far enough to take Amanda by the arm. “Get aboard, Amanda. We’re in trouble and we don’t have time for this.”

 

“What kind of trouble?” snapped Amanda.

 

Methos caught his breath as another Immortal signature assailed him. “God. Mac.”

 

“Now,” commanded Duncan. He lifted Amanda bodily over the side of the barge. “Get below.”

 

“Who is it?” asked Amanda quickly, looking around.

 

Methos heard the whistle of the knife being thrown a full half-second before he realized whom the target was; without thinking, he lunged in front of Duncan to take the blade in his own chest. Gasping in shock and pain, he fell back into Duncan’s arms.

 

“Christ Jesus,” whispered Duncan, cradling Methos as he lowered him to the deck. “Methos—”

 

“Get them away,” rasped Methos, coughing as blood rushed into his lungs. “Get Joe away now.” His mouth filled with blood and his vision blurred.

 

Amanda drew her sword, whirling toward the neighboring barge. “Oh, my God. They followed me. They followed—”

 

“Amanda, stay with Methos.” Duncan squeezed Methos’ shoulder. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

 

“Go now,” wheezed Methos desperately. Duncan nodded and disappeared. Amanda crouched beside him, clutching her sword tightly.

 

“Mac! They’re coming,” shouted Richie from the bow.

 

Methos struggled for breath as the vibrations of dozens of small impacts rose from the deck beneath him. “Amanda.” He offered her the gun, unable to stop the coughing that wracked him. “Help him.” Shouting, gunfire and the sound of blades erupted around them; he could hear Duncan shouting to Richie to go over the side.

 

“Keep still,” whispered Amanda, taking the weapon. “I’ll—”

 

A blur of motion in the periphery of Methos’ fading vision made him turn his head; Amanda leaped to her feet, aiming the gun. A well-aimed swipe of a long leg knocked it out of her hand, and Amanda sprang back, swinging her sword toward her attacker. The two blades clashed inches over Methos’ nose. Craning his neck, Methos managed to catch sight of her opponent; a tall, slender man with long dark hair and black eyes glowered down at him from his perch on the side of the barge. “Nathan,” he wheezed.

 

Nathan’s lip curled. “I return the favor of my blade, Marcus Gaius. Rest assured it will be returned many times in the days to come.”

 

“You,” spat Amanda contemptuously. “Finally decided to stop stalking and fight?”

 

“Amanda, go,” whispered Methos faintly, his vision finally going dark. He wanted to tell her that she didn’t stand a chance against Nathan of Mainz, that there was nothing she could do for him now, that she should run like hell. He died before he found the strength.

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Thank God.”

 

“Joe?”

 

Joe groaned at the crushing pain at the base of his skull and tried to open his eyes. Everything spun wildly, and he pinched them shut again. “Aw, shit.” He felt something warm settle over him and a shaking hand rest on his forehead. Groping a bit, he realized that somebody had covered him with a coat.

 

“Easy.” Methos’ voice sounded oddly weak. “You’re okay, Joe. Just lie still.”

 

Joe searched recent memory and groaned again; the last thing he could remember clearly was Duncan dragging him over the side of that damn boat. A disjointed series of images of the two of them struggling to keep afloat in black, freezing water, dodging thugs and bullets, paraded past his mind’s eye. “Cold,” he muttered. He realized that his teeth were chattering and hastily shut his mouth again. Someone took his hands and rubbed them.

 

“Put that back on.”

 

“You’re shivering.”

 

“It’s not the cold, Mac. Put it on Joe.”

 

Joe forced his eyes open again as Duncan’s jacket was tucked around him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision as his friends bent over him. God, they looked like hell—bruised, battered and exhausted. Duncan was still soaking wet and covered with river filth; his wet hair hung in his face, barely covering a recently healed gash on his forehead. Methos was dry, but his sweatshirt was ripped and drenched with blood. Joe glanced around, trying to catch a glimpse of their surroundings, but he couldn’t see much. A kerosene lamp hung from a thick rafter above them, casting a weak, flickering light onto the dirt floor on which they were sitting; everything else was hidden in shadows.

 

Methos pressed Joe’s hands between his own, his face twisted in anxiety. “Damn, you’re like ice.”

 

“Nothing like a dip in the Seine in February.” Joe glanced from Methos to Duncan and back again, slowly realizing what their grim expressions and their current accommodations meant. His stomach turned over. “Oh. We’re dead, aren’t we?”

 

Methos gave him a crooked little smile. “As existentialist postulates go, Joe, that’s pretty lame.”

 

Joe sighed wearily. “Why is it that every time things get really bad, you go all intellectual on my ass?”

 

“We’re not dead,” said Duncan in his most obstinate tone. “Not yet.” He pushed his wet hair back from his forehead with a determined expression.

 

“Just hypothermic,” muttered Methos, rubbing Joe’s hands vigorously. “How long were you two in the water?”

 

“Hell, I don’t know,” growled Joe, feeling something like warmth returning to his hands. “Mac was doing all the swimming, until they clubbed him.”

 

“Twenty minutes, maybe.” Duncan blew on his hands. “They finally came into the water after us. There were too many of them to lose.”

 

“God,” muttered Methos, blanching. “He wanted as many of you as he could get.”

 

Joe riveted his gaze on the jagged tear in Methos’ shirt. “And what the hell happened to you?”

 

“He took a knife for me,” said Duncan in a subdued tone.

 

“Don’t dramatize.” Methos shot Duncan an odd, wry look and tucked Joe’s hands under the two coats covering him. “Stay under there.”

 

“Where are we?” Joe craned his neck, trying again to see past the small patch of light.

 

“No idea.” Duncan shook his head, glancing around. “We were already here when I came back.”

 

“Then we’re probably still in the city.” Joe drew a breath of relief at the small blessing. “You couldn’t have been out that long.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Did you see what happened to Rich? Shit. Amanda and Joanna—”

 

“Rich went over the side. I didn’t see Amanda or Joanna.” Duncan’s voice became strained. “If they aren’t here—”

 

“They’re probably dead,” said Methos tonelessly. Joe winced at the devastation in his friend’s face.

 

“We don’t know that.” Duncan voice was quiet, determined.

 

“No, we don’t. But it’s the most likely possibility.” Methos’ face went painfully drawn as his voice strained and broke.

 

Joe yanked his hand out from under the coat and grabbed Methos’ arm. “Hey. Mac is right. Richie and Amanda are tougher than they look. And I might not know Joanna very well, but she strikes me as too damn ornery to go down easy.”

 

Methos smiled faintly and very gently put Joe’s hand back under the coats. “True enough.”

 

“She tracked Lucius down before. She can do it again.” Joe almost convinced himself.

 

Methos nodded with a bleak expression. “If she’s alive, she’ll find us.”

 

“You think we can’t get out of here on our own.” Duncan looked skeptical.

 

“Yes, I do. This is Lucius Germanicus, Mac. We’re not going anywhere without help. There’s no guarantee we’ll go anywhere _with _help.”

 

“Don’t you think you’re overestimating this man?”

 

“He isn’t,” said Joe grimly.

 

“Lucius can’t be overestimated,” said Methos quietly. “He’s brilliant and completely insane; his resources are unlimited. He has a private army at his beck and call, and by the look of things, he’s found himself as impenetrable a prison to slap us in as can be had in Paris. We’re unarmed, and in case you’ve forgotten, Joe is mortal.”

 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t dwell on my mortality right now,” growled Joe. “But I’m with Mac. If we’re going to die, let’s go down swinging.”

 

“The object of the exercise is not to die at all,” snapped Methos with an exasperated expression.

 

“What do you suggest, then?” asked Duncan in a strange, wary tone.

 

“We play for time.” Methos swallowed hard. “We play his game.”

 

“His game is ripping people open,” said Joe sharply.

 

“We need to keep him occupied until someone can find us.” Methos locked eyes with Duncan. “And we need to keep him the hell away from Joe.”

 

“Goddamn it!” Frightened and furious, Joe grabbed Methos’ arm and yanked him down to face him. “Don’t you even think about going there. If I’m a liability, break my neck and get it over with.”

 

“You’re not a liability,” said Methos unsteadily, meeting his eyes. “You’re mortal. I’m not. Those are the facts we have to deal with.”

 

Duncan nodded. “He’s right, Joe.”

 

Joe kicked off the coats and forced himself upright, horrified. Methos hastily laid a steadying hand on his shoulder as he nearly toppled backward again. “He’s right? Christ, MacLeod, you’re not getting it! He’s not talking about a stand-up fight. He’s talking about provoking that bastard into finishing what he started on him in Constantinople. Do you know what they did to him?”

 

Duncan shot Methos a sharp glance. “Not all of it.”

 

“Joe,” said Methos harshly.

 

“Well, let me enlighten you. They sliced him open, they skinned him, they put a hot poker up inside him, they fucking put his eyes out, and that’s just for starters!”

 

Methos pinched his eyes shut. “Joe. Stop.”

 

Duncan stared at Methos wordlessly, the color in his face bleeding away.

 

Joe pressed on, determined to by God shoot down this idea before it had flown too far. “I read the report of the Watchers who found you. I know exactly what that son of a bitch did to you. And if you think for one minute I’m putting you back on that table to save my own miserable hide, then you do not know me.”

 

“That’s not what I think.” Methos’ voice was barely audible. “I think I’ll last longer there than you would. We need to buy time.”

 

“Then time’s too expensive,” said Duncan thickly. “We’ll think of something else.”

 

Methos opened his eyes and spoke with a quiet ferocity that made Joe hold his breath. “There is nothing else. If we let Lucius make the first move, he’ll do what he did before—he’ll make me watch while he does this to one of you. That is not going to happen this time.”

 

“Nothing is going to happen to Joe,” returned Duncan, returning Methos’ intimidating gaze without flinching.

 

“Nothing is going to happen to either of you. Not if Lucius is sufficiently entertained—and if Joanna’s still alive. I’m something of an expert on this, MacLeod. Joe can tell you I’m the only man ever to survive a visit with Lucius Germanicus. I know how this game is played. Do you want to live?”

 

“Not at that price,” whispered Duncan.

 

“Do you want Joe to live?”

 

“You’re asking me to choose between you?”

 

“There is no choice,” said Methos, all steel. “It’s Joe.”

 

Joe buried his head in his hands, every nightmare he’d ever had about Lucius paling to insignificance. This was worse than his worst nightmare; it sent his worst nightmare yelping from his mind with its tail between its legs. At least in his nightmares he’d always been alone. “Listen to me.” Joe didn’t recognize his own voice. “You do this, and so help me God, I’ll dive on the first gun I see.” A silence fell, so complete that Joe was hard pressed to hear his friends breathing.

 

Then Joe felt Methos’ coat being wrapped around him, Methos’ arm going around his shoulders, Methos’ forehead resting on his shoulder. Duncan wrapped his arms around both of them, his head resting against Joe’s; they were all silent for a few seconds.

 

“We’ll survive this,” whispered Duncan. “We can survive this. All of us.”

 

“How?” Methos whispered back.

 

Joe heard the muffled sound of a door opening somewhere past whatever walls surrounded them and felt both Duncan and Methos raise their heads. Methos was shaking violently. “Let me do the talking. Keep quiet. Don’t draw any unnecessary attention to yourselves.”

 

The scraping of tumblers in an antiquated lock echoed in the tiny space. Joe jerked his head up. “Help me up,” snapped Joe. “I’m not going to meet that bastard sitting on my ass.”

 

He was startled to see Duncan grin broadly, hear Methos’ feeble chuckle. “God help Lucius Germanicus,” murmured Duncan gently in his ear as he and Methos lifted Joe to his feet. “Leave something for us to stomp on, okay?”

 

“No promises,” muttered Joe, straightening.

 

“Don’t be greedy, Joseph, it’s unattractive.” Methos squared his shoulders as a door barely visible in the shadows began to swing open.

 

Joe blinked as the harsh electric light of high power flashlights flooded the room.

 

“Come out. One at a time, and slowly.”

 

Joe grit his teeth; he recognized the voice. He started to move forward, only to have Methos stop him with a hand on his shoulder and move through the door first. Joe clenched his fist involuntarily. Methos had to know that Joe wasn’t bluffing. This sacrificial lamb scenario was not going down. Joe moved through the door on Methos’ heels, moving as best he could without his cane.

 

It had obviously been a wine cellar once, and a large one; some of the ancient racks still lined the walls. But everything else had been cleared away. An unstable wooden staircase teetered upward to a door approximately twenty feet above the floor, beyond the reach of the flashlights; another door opened onto a dark room to Joe’s right. As Duncan moved to Joe’s side, Joe realized that both his friends were standing extremely close to him, their shoulders brushing his. Joe cursed silently. Methos could deny it all he liked, he _was _a liability; for the first and only time in his life he wished he were an Immortal. Peering past the flashlights into the dark, Joe quickly counted six men armed with prominently displayed automatic weapons—and Nathan, who stood apparently unarmed before them with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

Joe took a quick breath to steady himself and glanced aside at Methos. He was surprised to see his friend staring fixedly over Nathan’s head, past the light into the pitch black of the wooden landing at the top of the stair. Joe followed his gaze, and with difficulty made out an undefined shape slightly darker than its surroundings. The hair on the back of his neck went up.

 

“Good evening, Marcus Gaius.” The voice was deep, the accent cultured, the tone mild.

 

“Lucius.” Methos’ voice was as steady as Joe had ever heard it; only someone standing close beside him would have noticed his trembling.

 

“You have once again fallen into bad habits.”

 

 “Quite a few.”

 

“You were foolish to delay your departure.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Joe felt a chill settle on him that had nothing to do with the ice water still trickling down his skin, and knew that Lucius had shifted his attention to him. Lucius fucking Germanicus, the madman who had terrorized the Watchers for six centuries, was back from the dead and sitting in the shadows like a spider, watching him. Joe stared back.

 

“Joseph Dawson. I understand you are an _expert _on the subject of Lucius Germanicus.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me.” Joe was shocked to hear his normal voice come out of his mouth, like he was talking to some guy at the bar and not the mythic monster that had stalked his nightmares. Methos stiffened and curled his long fingers around Joe’s wrist, squeezing slightly as if in warning.

 

“And what have your studies taught you?”

 

“More than I wanted to know,” said Joe evenly.

 

“Surely a true scholar’s thirst for knowledge is never quenched.”

 

“Mine is.”

 

“And yet here you are, an unwilling student, dipping your cup in the spring.”

 

_A fucking poet, _thought Joe grimly. “Yeah, I’m here, all right.”

 

“You will learn a great deal before you die.”

 

“Swell.”

 

“Where are our friends?” cut in Duncan impatiently.

 

“My master has not addressed you, Duncan MacLeod.” Nathan moved in Duncan’s direction, eyes narrowing.

 

“Mac,” murmured Methos, eyes lowered.

 

Duncan glanced at Methos and subsided, his jaw set obstinately.

 

“The man asked a question,” said Joe determinedly. “What did you do with our friends?” He saw Methos flinch imperceptibly. __

“What are you to Marcus Gaius?” Lucius seemed oblivious to the interruption.

 

Joe blinked at the unexpected question. “What am I?”

 

“He’s an acquaintance,” put in Methos expressionlessly. “A fellow Watcher.”

 

“An acquaintance you were willing to die for. You have become generous, Marcus Gaius. What is he to you?”

 

“An acquaintance,” repeated Methos steadily.

 

“You lie. And you lie badly. What is he? Friend? Brother? Lover?”

 

Joe felt the trembling in Methos’ hand intensify; he cut in with a laugh, hoping he could stall long enough for Methos to pull himself together. “Lover? You’ve got to be kidding, pal. What, you think I can’t do better than him?”

 

Nathan took two long strides toward him, raising his hand as if for a blow; Joe found himself being shoved back as Methos and Duncan closed ranks in front of him.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” said Duncan in as menacing a tone as Joe had ever heard from him.

 

“A brother.” The dark satisfaction in Lucius’ voice made Joe’s mouth go dry. “To both.”

 

“Master?” Nathan glanced over his shoulder at the shadow at the top of the stairs.

 

“Marcus,” was the reply.

 

Before Joe understood the import of Nathan’s question, Nathan hauled back his arm and dealt Methos a savage blow across the face. Methos gasped and staggered back slightly against Joe, but made no attempt to defend himself. Duncan lunged at Nathan and immediately froze as the gunmen trained their weapons on Joe. Methos whirled and shoved Joe against the wall, pressing his palms to the wall on either side of him as he shielded him with his body, breathing hard. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze where they were for an interminable moment; Joe stared into Methos’ eyes, reading there and finally understanding, in shock, the true depth of Methos’ determination to keep Joe Dawson alive no matter what the cost.

 

“Don’t,” said Duncan quietly, turning his hands palm upward in surrender. “Please.”

 

“The Watcher lacks courtesy.” Nathan straightened from his defensive position.

 

“And the protégé of Darius of Rome lacks discipline.” If Lucius was in any way ruffled by what had just happened, his voice did not betray it. “A virtue worth the pain necessary to acquire it.”

 

Nathan nodded. “MacLeod,” he barked to the gunmen.

 

“Mac,” breathed Methos faintly, looking over his shoulder.

 

Six automatic weapons opened fire, and the wine racks to Joe’s right exploded into tiny shards of wooden shrapnel. “No!” shouted Joe, trying to move; Methos held him firmly against the wall. In a daze, Joe saw Duncan go down bloody, saw Methos’ face go twisted as one round, then another struck him in quick succession, propelling him against Joe. The firing stopped. Methos leaned his forehead against Joe’s for a moment, blood staining his lips. “Adam,” Joe whispered, horrified. Methos’ eyes closed, and he slipped limply from Joe’s weakened grasp to the floor. Joe stood, swaying, staring from one bloodied friend to the other and back again.

 

“We shall continue our conversation when our guests are recovered.” Lucius’ cool voice penetrated the fog of Joe’s shock.

 

Joe lifted his eyes to the shadow on the stairs, wordless.

 

“Yes, Master.” Nathan’s dark eyes rested with unearthly satisfaction on Methos’ still form.

 

“Perhaps then courtesy and discipline will have reasserted themselves.”

 

As if responding to a signal that Joe couldn’t perceive, the armed men started to withdraw. Abandoning what remained of his pride, Joe slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, and buried his face in his hands.

 

***

 

 

Amanda perched atop the stone wall and peered through the moonlit trees toward the house, but there was no movement that she could detect. She dropped to the other side of the wall and remained in a crouch, listening intently.

 

“This is nuts. This is fucking certifiable, Amanda.” Richie slithered over the wall and landed softly beside her.

 

Amanda didn’t allow him to distract her. “You said Shapiro knows where this looney toon with the knife fetish is.”

 

“This ‘looney toon with the knife fetish’ is responsible for the slow death of thousands of Watchers. He is a master tactician with a private army and a personal fortune larger than the treasury of most nations.” Joanna dropped lightly beside them, flashing Amanda an exasperated look.

 

Amanda flashed it right back. “Are you always this much fun?”

 

“This isn’t one of your recreational larcenies. In case you’ve forgotten—”

 

“Do I look like the kind of woman who forgets being dumped into the Seine in the middle of the night? That clown Lucius owes me one very expensive, full-length leather coat. This one is ruined. Look at it. I wouldn’t be seen dead in it. And we wouldn’t be in this mess if your boyfriend had told me what the hell was going on in the first place.”

 

Joanna’s eyes widened slightly. “My _boyfriend_?” She made an odd choking sound.

 

“Will you two keep it down?” hissed Richie. “This isn’t the local K-Mart, okay? The Watchers have stuff like guns and swords and really bad mood swings.”

 

Amanda snorted. “Will you relax? I’ve gotten into their Headquarters before.”

 

“Unless somebody had just delivered a dead Watcher there in easy-to-carry pieces, I don’t think the experience is likely to be applicable,” said Joanna drily.

 

“God, you even sound like him,” said Amanda in disgust, leading the way cautiously through the wooded grounds.

 

“So I’ve been told.” Joanna sounded amused now. “Would you mind telling me how you intend to circumvent security, which, by the way, might be dancing in the realm of the absurd, what with Lucius Germanicus being back from the dead and all? Or did you just plan to ring the front doorbell?”

 

“I haven’t worked all that out yet.”

 

Richie swore softly. “Amanda. Get a grip.”

 

“I’m not leaving without Shapiro,” said Amanda shakily. “He’s the only one who knows where MacLeod is.”

 

“Exactly. Which is why we’re waiting for the Order.” Joanna pulled Amanda down and crouched at her side.

 

Amanda yanked her arm out of Joanna’s grasp impatiently. “We don’t have time for that!”

 

Joanna sighed. “Amanda. Think. We’re well within the standard perimeter of their security, and we haven’t seen so much as a guard dog.”

 

“You think they’ve already cleared out,” whispered Amanda, her last hope fizzling.

 

“Or they’ve tightened their perimeter to free their security guards for other duties.”

 

“Duties like … packing up the Uzis and the telephoto lenses and hitting the road?” Richie hunkered down beside them with a slightly more hopeful expression.

 

“Exactly. Listen.”

 

Amanda held her breath and listened intently. Engines. Car doors being slammed. And voices. All from the far side of the house. “They’re leaving!”

 

“No, they’re getting ready to leave. Listen carefully. The trucks aren’t moving, they’re being loaded.”

 

“If Shapiro gets off the grounds, we’ll never catch him!” Amanda leapt up and sprinted away, ignoring Joanna’s muffled curse. What the hell good would Joanna’s band of merry men do if the only person who knew where Lucius was got away? She stayed within the cover of the trees as she circled the house, moving as quickly as roots and uneven ground and darkness would permit. By the time she reached a spot where she had both good cover and a good view of the activity in the driveway, Richie and Joanna had caught up to her.

 

“I repeat,” wheezed Richie in her ear, all red curls, dripping water and annoyance. “Fucking certifiable.”

 

“How have you lived this long?” hissed Joanna. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Have you even _seen _Shapiro before?”

 

“I’ve seen a picture of him,” muttered Amanda, peering through the foliage. “After Duncan told me about what he did to Joe, I hacked into Joe’s laptop and pulled up the bastard’s personnel file.”

 

Richie gave her sour look. “You love to do things the hard way, don’t you? I just asked Joe to show me his picture.”

 

“And he showed you?” Joanna seemed surprised.

 

“Sure he did. Said he wanted me to steer clear of him. Joe’s cool.”

 

“An unusual Watcher.”

 

Richie shrugged. “Joe’s Joe. He’s family.”

 

“Ah,” said Joanna softly, comprehension flooding her expression.

 

“I can’t see the son of a bitch,” muttered Amanda in frustration. Half a dozen small moving vans were parked, engines running, on the lawn within the circular driveway, which were surrounded by again as many cars, which were in turn surrounded by a good thirty to forty security types openly armed with automatic weapons, gleaming ominously in the vehicles’ headlights. A small army of men and women were carrying boxes and computers from the house and loading them into the trucks. As scared sick as Amanda was by what might be happening to the Three Musketeers, she felt a certain perverse satisfaction that anything or anyone could scare the local Hitler Youth into skedaddling in the dead of night with their collective tail between their hairy legs. Lucius Germanicus was obviously a major player.

 

“Even if we spot him, how are we supposed to get to him? They’ll blow us away before we get halfway across the yard, and once they recognize us it’s chop-chop-chop.” Richie’s voice seethed with frustration.

 

Joanna nodded. “Agreed. This is not the place.”

 

“There is no other place!”

 

“Amanda, will you stop with the guilt trip already?” Richie glared at her. “You think getting yourself killed is going to help Mac? Use your brain.”

 

Amanda tore her gaze from the Watchers to stare at him. “Guilt? You think I feel guilt? If you _men_ had bothered to let me in on this little secret of yours, this would never have happened! If anyone should be feeling guilt—”

 

“You must have a great view of the pyramids from that houseboat of yours,” snapped Richie. “I lived with Duncan MacLeod, for crying out loud; you think I don’t know guilt when I see it? Just knock it off and start thinking.”

 

“I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about,” stammered Amanda, unnerved. What was it with the kid these days? The Amazing Kreskin had nothing on him.

 

“True,” said Joanna mildly. “Rampaging stupidity notwithstanding.”

 

“Look, oh ancient one, I didn’t ask you to come along,” snapped Amanda, thoroughly irritated. “If you don’t want Shapiro—”

 

“Shapiro tortured my husband to death and left his head on a spike at my gate,” returned Joanna in a voice that would have punctured titanium plating. “I want him more than either of you could in ten thousand years.” Amanda stared at her, shocked into silence. “But attempting to take him here is—”

 

“Got him,” said Richie suddenly. “Got him.”

 

Amanda swung around to stare eagerly at the driveway. “Where?”

 

“By the limo. See? Talking to the blond guy. That’s Urquhart, the Regional Coordinator. The guy who assigned him to find Lucius.”

 

Amanda squinted through the leaves, then spotted the dark, stocky man she’d seen in the Watcher database. “Yeah, that’s Shapiro all right. Ugly little toad, isn’t he?”

 

Richie grinned. “Yeah, his picture doesn’t do ugly justice.”

 

Amanda started violently at the soft trilling of a cell phone; Joanna swore softly and snatched it from her pocket. “Jochen. What part of ‘don’t call me—’” Joanna paused, her gaze riveted on Shapiro as he and Urquhart climbed into the limo. “Good work. Yes. I’m looking at him right now. He’s getting into a limousine. He should be passing through the front gate in a matter of minutes.”

 

“He’s going to get away,” hissed Amanda, starting to rise. Joanna seized her arm and dragged her down again.

 

“It’s the only limousine here. How quickly can you get control of the gates?”

 

Amanda turned to stare at her, light dawning. “They’re at the gate?”

 

Richie cackled softly, his eyes glued to the limousine as it began to pull away. “It’s payback time.”

 

“If the other cars leave at the same time, this could get nasty. Yes. I know. We’re on our way.” Joanna shoved the phone into her pocket and watched the driveway carefully for a moment as Amanda shifted impatiently. “The other cars aren’t moving yet. This could work. Let’s go.”

 

“It’s about time,” snapped Amanda, sprinting back the way she came at full speed, determined to beat the slowly moving car to the gate.

 

“Kindly do not get yourself killed,” murmured Joanna, darting past her. “We need every hand we have.”

 

“What she said,” gasped Richie as he caught up to her. “Besides, Mac will have my head stuffed and mounted if anything happens to you. Get it together, Amanda.”

 

They were crazy. Did they really think she was on some sort of guilt-induced suicide kick? Well, they obviously did not know Amanda. She had no intention whatsoever of dying. Dying had never been part of her plan. She and Methos saw eye-to-eye on that particular subject. In fact, it was the only subject on which she and Methos saw eye-to-eye—well, that and Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod the boy scout, Duncan MacLeod the hopelessly naïve, idealistic dreamer, Duncan MacLeod the windmill-tilting knight in shining armor. She knew damn well that Methos loved that quixotically romantic idiot as much as she did, whatever alpha male posturing compelled him to say to the contrary. In fact, there had been times she’d suspected that that old schemer loved Duncan even more than she did. And that was saying something.

 

Amanda tripped over a root and nearly went down on her face. Cutting loose with a soft Middle English obscenity, she riveted her thoughts on the here and now. It took her a moment to realize that they had already circled the house and were at the point where the drive lay nearest to the woods, close to the gate; she could hear the limousine approaching just beyond the last curve in the drive. Glancing ahead, she saw Richie and Joanna with their heads together, but before she could ask what was going on, Richie took off across the grass and sprawled face down in the road.

 

“You have got to be kidding,” hissed Amanda in Joanna’s ear, drawing Methos’ gun.

 

“It’s a classic.” Joanna nodded with a wry smile at the approaching car. “I’ll drive. You get rid of Urquhart. And you’ll use that thing to intimidate, not kill. Got it?”

 

“Do you really think that they’re stupid enough—” Amanda broke off in disbelief as the car slowed, then stopped about ten feet from Richie’s motionless form. “I withdraw the question.”

 

The driver got out of the car and trotted ahead to bend over Richie. “Go,” hissed Joanna.

 

Amanda took off across the short expanse of grass and yanked open the rear door. Jack Shapiro gasped and cringed away from her; the blond man at his side stared at her in pure indignation. “Who the devil—”

 

“Get out of the car.” Amanda shoved Shapiro aside as she slid into the back seat. She ignored the cowering Shapiro and leveled her weapon at the end of Urquhart’s nose, hearing the startled squawk of the driver and the sound of a blow. Joanna slid behind the wheel.

 

Urquhart’s eyes widened. “I know you!”

 

“I said get out of the damn car!” shouted Amanda.

 

Urquhart’s door was yanked open and Richie appeared. He grabbed the Watcher by the arm and pulled him out.

 

“Ryan,” hissed Urquhart. “Amanda. What is this?”

 

“Ask Shapiro,” snarled Richie, shoving Urquhart away from the car. “Ask him how he busted his buddy Lucius out of prison. Better yet, ask him where Lucius has Dawson and Pierson and MacLeod!”

 

“Richie, now,” barked Joanna, slamming her door shut.

 

Richie jumped into the back seat and shut the door as Urquhart leaped forward to pound on the window. “Shapiro!” he howled. “What does he mean? What have you done? Shapiro!”

 

Shapiro whimpered and said nothing as Joanna floored the accelerator, barreling toward the closed gates. Shapiro huddled with his face in his hands; Amanda swallowed hard. “Ah…honey. Sweetie. Gates not open.”

 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” growled Joanna.

 

“This is where Jochen does his thing, right?” Richie leaned forward urgently. “Right?”

 

As if in answer, the steel gates began to swing inward. Slowly.

 

“Oh, shit,” hissed Amanda. “Shit! Joanna! Tell ’em to get out and push!” A strong light blinded her; it took her a moment to realize that it was the reflection of headlights in the rear view mirror.

 

“They’re coming! Oh, fuck, Jo, they’re right behind us!” Richie stared back at the car rapidly gaining on them.

 

“Keep an eye on this weasel,” snapped Amanda to Richie, turning enough to put her arm out the window and take what passed for aim at the approaching vehicle.

 

“No!” Joanna’s voice was fierce. “Do not fire!”

 

“I’m aiming for the tires! What, are Firestones sacred where you come from?”

 

“You couldn’t hit those tires if I offered you the British crown jewels, you little twit! Get your arm inside the car!”

 

“Oh geez oh geez oh geez,” shouted Richie, ducking behind the front seat as the car hurtled toward the partially opened gates.

 

Amanda yanked her arm inside just as a deafening sound of metal shrieking against metal assaulted her ears. She stared through the rear window, realizing only then that they had somehow managed to squeeze through; the gates were beginning to swing closed again. This did not, however, appear to make much of an impression on the driver of the oncoming car, who rather ill-advisedly increased his speed to come at the gates full throttle. The resulting crash stopped the car halfway through the gate, with the mangled steel bars wrapped about it like some bizarre hood ornament. The violence done to the steel in turn pulled large chunks of the masonry from the gate’s pillars into the road, piling huge piles of stone around and on top of the car. The car’s horn went off, plaintively bemoaning its fate as the limousine pulled away from the estate and around the bend in the county road. Amanda flopped back in her seat with a sigh of relief. “Well. They won’t be following us any time soon.”

 

“Every Watcher in Paris will be searching for us within the hour,” said Joanna grimly.

 

“You’re right,” stammered Shapiro. “Just pull over and let me out, and they might just let you live.”

 

“I would not make such remarks if I were you, Mr. Shapiro, lest I feel inclined to emulate your methods of extracting information from my guests.”

 

Amanda felt a chill at the unsheathed menace in the woman’s voice. Shit. This was one chick she did not want to mess with. “Where now?”

 

Joanna glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Midnight mass. Mr. Shapiro has an appointment with his confessor.”

 

***

 

 

“Joe. Don’t. This is what he wants.”

 

“I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Like it would have killed me to say ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir’ and not get the both of you shot.” Joe’s voice was weary, broken.

 

“Joe. Listen to me. He would have shot us no matter what you said. He would have shot us if you hadn’t said a word. It’s all part of the game.”

 

Duncan clenched his teeth against the returning flood of pain. He immediately felt someone stroking his hair back, and forced his eyes open. Methos bent over him with a sober expression. “Breathe.”

 

Duncan breathed obediently, managing not to groan. “Joe,” he whispered. He became slowly aware that his head was in Methos’ lap. The room was dark again, with the exception of the weak light from the kerosene lamp in the next room.

 

“I’m okay.” Joe appeared beside Methos, face white and eyes red. “Sorry, Mac. God, I’m sorry. I just didn’t get it.”

 

“Joseph.” Duncan groped in Joe’s direction until Joe’s hand curled around his. “I didn’t get it either.” He let his eyes close again, letting the comfort of his friends’ touch steady him. He hadn’t gotten it—until that thug had hit Methos. He had wanted nothing more in that moment than to choke the life out of both of those sadistic bastards.

 

Methos sighed softly. “Do you get it now? We have to try it my way, Mac.”

 

“No,” said Duncan, cringing inwardly at the thought. “We’ll find another way.”

 

“Mac.” Duncan opened his eyes at the gentle insistence in Methos’ tone. Methos bent low over him with an earnest expression that completely riveted Duncan’s attention. Methos was not a man to abandon his air of sardonic detachment lightly; the only thing that seemed to provoke such candor was danger to a life, or a soul, that he cared deeply enough about to make the effort. “The only reason you are here with me is because Lucius suspects that I care about you. Do you understand? The only reason Joe is here with me—”

 

“Is because Jack Shapiro sicced his Immortal pit bull on me, and you got caught between his teeth and my ass,” snapped Joe.

 

“—is because he suspects I care about him. Lucius wants to play. He wants to see if hurting you two will break me, break me before he takes the first knife to me. That’s the game. So tell me. What other way is there?”

 

Duncan swallowed hard. “First of all, you make damn sure he knows that it won’t break you.”

 

“He knows better,” said Methos quietly. “So do I.”

 

Duncan stared up at his friend, shocked into silence.

 

“Jesus.” Joe put an arm around Methos’ shoulders and leaned on him heavily. “Adam. We can’t do this.”

 

“Inches, Joe.” Methos voice sharpened. “We came within inches of losing you. If those bullets hadn’t passed through Mac before they hit me, you’d be dead now.”

 

Duncan let out the breath he’d been holding, fighting his rising desperation. “I—We are not handing you over to that lunatic. We can protect Joe. We can protect you.”

 

“We can’t. Mac, we can’t. Help me do this.” Methos drew a sharp breath and tore his gaze from Duncan as the door above opened suddenly. Despite the ominous signature of an approaching Immortal, Duncan found himself unable to look at anything but his friend’s face as Methos’ expression altered from pleading to impassive; he was going into survival mode before his eyes. This was the man he’d told Joe was incapable of friendship. He wondered bleakly if either Joe or Methos had any idea how bitterly ashamed he was of those words.

 

“On your feet.”

 

Duncan craned his neck, struggling to see Nathan in the pitch black above them. He couldn’t. He set his jaw and forced himself into a sitting position, grunting at the pain.

 

“He can’t get on his feet.” Methos was up and away, moving toward the stairs before Duncan could grab him. “He’s hurt. They both are. Let’s end this farce, Nathan. Your master has made his point. He’s won. Let’s skip the tiresome preliminaries, shall we?”

 

“Christ Jesus,” whispered Joe, watching him with widening eyes.

 

Duncan hauled himself upward and staggered over to the staircase beside Methos, leaning on it heavily as he stared up into the darkness. “No, let’s not skip all of them. Give me a sword and face me, Nathan of Mainz.”

 

Methos cast him an infuriated glance, but Nathan barked a laugh. “I have read about you, Duncan MacLeod. Your Watcher has likened you to a knight errant of old.”

 

“Face me, if you’re a man!”

 

“I am a man.” Nathan descended the stairs, followed by a single armed man. His face was drawn in tightly controlled anger. “I am a man who has seen the true faces of those who style themselves knights errant. They came to Mainz nine centuries ago, carrying their cross, bound for Jerusalem, and slaughtered my people like cattle. The bodies of Jews were piled in the streets. The homes of Jews burned by the thousands. My father was hacked to pieces in the street outside his door, and his head was stuck upon a pike for my mother and brothers and sister to gaze upon.”

 

Duncan stared up at him, shocked into silence.

 

“The knights attacked our house, and we prepared to sacrifice ourselves rather than suffer unclean hands to be laid upon us. But a guest of our house summoned his guards, and fought back the noble knights of the cross. My family’s lives and honor were spared.”

 

Duncan nodded slowly in sickened comprehension. “And you offered him your service in gratitude.” It was what he would have done.

 

“I have served faithfully.”

 

“But you must have seen what he was! There is no honor in serving a murderer.”

 

“Thus speaks the servant of Darius of Rome,” said Nathan coldly. “You are a hypocrite, Duncan MacLeod.”

 

Duncan drew a sharp breath, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.

 

“Mac,” said Methos in an urgent undertone. “Leave it.”

 

“The Darius I served bore no resemblance to the man your master knew.” Duncan forged ahead determinedly. “He changed, Nathan. He was a good man.”

 

“You are deluded. You have deceived yourself. Or you are evil.” Nathan brought the full force of his gaze to bear; Duncan could feel Methos stiffen beside him. “My master does not murder. He is an instrument of divine justice.”

 

“Justice? How can this possibly be justice? He butchers helpless mortals who have never done him any harm.”

 

“No harm?” Nathan’s eyes widened in what appeared to be shock; it was the first lapse in restraint Duncan had noticed in the man. Nathan composed himself instantly. “Harm enough, Duncan MacLeod. My master visits his suffering upon those who inflicted it. No more, no less. Were I able to do the same to those who slaughtered my people, I would.”

 

“The men who slaughtered your people are long dead. So is the man who tortured your master. You murder the innocent.”

 

“You speak of what you do not know. My master suffers torture every day. The students of Darius’ evil teachings live on; the society of Watchers who betrayed him enjoys wealth and power. There are no innocents here.”

 

“Joe Dawson is innocent. He hasn’t harmed anyone. He’s never laid eyes on Lucius. He never knew Darius.”

 

“He is a Watcher; they have not changed in a thousand years. My master’s blood stains their hands. And he is the brother of Marcus Gaius.” Nathan’s gaze fell to Methos; Duncan’s throat tightened at the malice in those eyes.

 

“And what has Marcus Gaius done to Lucius? He was his friend. For God’s sake, man, he nearly died saving your master’s life! Is this the gratitude of an honorable man?”

 

“My gratitude died when he betrayed my trust.” Lucius’ cool voice floated down from the landing, causing Duncan to start violently. He hadn’t even realized that the man was there; he must have entered when Nathan had. The bastard had been listening to every word. “His friendship was a sham.”

 

_He’s not capable of friendship._

“I was merely a tool in his designs.”

 

_He’s just using us. We’re nothing to him!_

 

“He revealed his true nature when he allied himself with the evil men from his past and aided my enemies.”

 

_Another monster from your past has come looking for his old partner, right?_

 

“His fate was his own choosing. Even now he wears the sign of the Watchers upon his wrist. What evil is he planning in concert with these god-cursed parasites? How many will suffer if he and they are permitted to continue?”

 

So what’s the plan, Death on a horse? How many innocent lives are you playing with this time?

 

Duncan stared up into the darkness, sickened, demoralized. This was what he had become. This was what his friends saw when they looked at him: a man twisted, fallen from human grace, a perverted shadow of what he’d once been, one man as judge, jury, and executioner—but the judge was drunk, the jury insane, and the executioner so consumed with rage that justice died a-borning. “You’re wrong. He’s a good man,” he croaked. “The best.” He could see Methos’ fleeting expression of astonishment out of the corner of his eye.

 

“What is Marcus Gaius to you, Duncan MacLeod?”

 

Duncan turned to Methos in confusion; Methos met his gaze with open dread on his face.

 

“Friend? Brother? Lover?”

 

Lover?

 

Duncan stared at Methos in dawning wonder.

 

Lover. Why had the horrors of Methos’ past hurt him so badly, infuriated him so deeply? Why had Methos’ lack of candor, of trust in him driven him to mindless, unjust fury? Why had the mere notion of Methos as Kronos’ partner made him think of nothing but taking Kronos’ head and slashing what remained into quivering ribbons? Why had the beautiful, welcoming smile on Methos’ face made him loathe Byron at first sight?

 

Sweet Jesus. Oh, sweet Jesus, what had he been doing?

 

“My master has asked you a question.” Nathan was regarding him intently.

 

“A friend,” answered Methos coolly, moving to stand in front of Duncan as Nathan descended the stairs to the floor, his armed guard behind him, weapon at the ready. “This has gone on long enough, Lucius. We all know how this will end. It’s time to end it.”

 

The words snapped Duncan out of his shock and back to the gruesome reality that they were playing for their lives. He grabbed Methos’ arm and yanked him back beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe drag himself to the door of their former prison to grab the doorjamb and start pulling himself painfully to his feet. “Give me a sword. Face me, Lucius. Let God determine whether or not you’re an agent of his justice.”

 

“God has answered that question many times,” said Lucius harshly.

 

“My master would never condescend to cross blades with the likes of you.” Nathan’s voice was faintly indignant.

 

Duncan ignored the servant and stared up at the shadows surrounding the master in silence for a moment. Then he laughed softly. “Coward.” He heard Methos draw a ragged breath, heard Joe mutter, “God.”

 

Nathan’s arm was a blur as he reached inside his jacket to draw his dagger. “You dare—”

 

“Mac, stop this,” said Methos unevenly.

 

“Coward!” Duncan turned his back on Nathan to shout up the stairs into the darkness. “Is this the courage and honor of Rome? To hide like a snake under a rock and do nothing but hiss when honorably challenged?”

 

“What do you know of the courage and honor of Rome?” Lucius’ voice rose to a violent snarl. “You, who befriend traitors and serve monsters?”

 

“Evidently more than you do, coward. The men you call traitor and monster have more knowledge of courage and honor than you will ever have, and I’m proud to have known them both. Now face me!”

 

“Master,” choked Nathan, face flushed. “Allow me—”

 

“You are proud to know Marcus Gaius?”

 

“Yes,” snapped Duncan, vaguely aware that Methos was staring at him with an aghast expression. “I’m proud to know him.”

 

“He is dear to you.” Lucius voice dropped to an ugly, deep-throated rumble.

 

Duncan froze, realizing too late that he had led Lucius’ attention in a circle, right back to Methos. “I’ve challenged you, Lucius. Give me—”

 

“He is very dear to you.” The satisfaction in Lucius’ voice made Duncan’s heart rate spike. “What would you do to save his life?”

 

“Nothing,” cut in Methos. “He knows my life can’t be saved. This is pointless, Lucius. You’ve won. Take your revenge and have done.”

 

“Would you beg for his life, Duncan MacLeod? Would you die for him?”

 

“Enough. Stop.” Methos spoke in a commanding tone, but there was desperation in his eyes. Whirling away from Duncan and Nathan, Methos strode past a horror-stricken Joe into the little room and seized the lantern that hung there, then walked determinedly into the dark room on their right. Turning in amazement to watch him, Duncan saw his friend set the lantern on the long table that occupied much of the room. It took him a moment to realize that the table was fitted with leather straps, and was splattered with something dark and red that glistened grotesquely in the uncertain light of the lantern. “What are you waiting for?” Methos drew Duncan’s sweatshirt over his head and flung it aside. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Fetch your damned knives.”

 

Duncan drew a ragged breath, his world tilting at the sight. He stepped toward Methos, fully intending to drag him out of that horrible little room by force, when a loud curse in Russian and a gunshot tore through the shocked silence. Duncan wheeled around to see Joe struggling with the guard, yanking the business end of the man’s weapon toward himself. Duncan lunged toward Joe, but Nathan moved quicker; he peeled Joe away from the guard as if the Watcher were a child and yanked him away, holding his dagger to Joe’s bandaged throat.

 

“Master?”

 

“Put him away,” said Lucius coldly. “He will keep.”

 

Nathan dragged Joe toward the door of the smaller room, and Joe struggled every step of the way, shouting at the top of his lungs. “So much for the war on the Watchers, huh, Lucius? In case it’s escaped your attention, I’m the only Watcher here! What’s the matter? Has God changed his mind?”

 

“Silence, Watcher.” Nathan gave Joe’s throat a little dig with the dagger.

 

Joe jerked away from the knife and turned his head to spit in Nathan’s face. “Yeah, you’d better start with me, you bastard. You’d better start cutting me first, because if you touch either one of them I will find you and I will cut your fucking heads off, no matter how long it takes me, do you—”

 

Nathan made a snarling sound and shoved Joe inside the dark room, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him. Joe was pounding on the door before Nathan had turned the key in the lock. “Mac! Stop him! Fight him, damn you! Don’t let him do this!”

 

“Such incompetence is intolerable.” Nathan turned away from the door, and without further preamble, sent his dagger flying across the room to embed itself squarely in the chest of the armed guard. The man stared blankly for a moment, then crumpled to the earth.

 

“Mac!” Joe’s voice rose to a howl.

 

“I won’t let him,” called Duncan grimly, resolved. Joe was right. Better to go down swinging. His life wasn’t worth the price Methos was willing to pay for it. He turned toward Methos again, but all he saw was the blur of Methos’ set face and his oncoming fist before the impact rendered him unconscious.

 

***

 

 

“The others are already inside.” Jochen held open the door them, his lip curling in distaste as Shapiro passed by.

 

“Good.” Joanna’s tone was painfully brisk. “Whatever we do, we’ll have to do it quickly. The Watchers will be mobilized soon.”

 

“Don’t you think we should lock the doors?” Amanda glanced back at the doors as she gave Shapiro a rough shove down the aisle, trying to rein in her unease at the sight of the people standing in front of the altar. She had never seen so many Immortals in one place before, and a lot of them were Ancients. Their signatures ricocheted unpleasantly inside her skull, creating an Immortal white noise that set her teeth on edge. Amanda knew that there were mortals mixed in with that crowd of perhaps three dozen, but there was so much interference that she couldn’t tell who was what. They all turned to watch the approach of Shapiro with grim faces and dangerous eyes. So this was the Order. Or what was left of it.

 

“There are no locks on the doors of St. Julien’s,” said Joanna softly. “Darius refused to bar the doors of the house of God.”

 

“His insurance agent must have loved him,” muttered Amanda.

 

“What about the priest?” Richie was uncharacteristically solemn.

 

“An old friend. He is visiting some ill parishioners tonight.”

 

“He’s a trusting soul,” remarked Amanda.

 

“You disapprove of trust?” Joanna gave her an odd look.

 

“Oh, no. Best way to get screwed over I can think of.”

 

“You’re dead,” snarled Shapiro, for what Amanda was certain was the seventeenth time in the past half hour. This time he was addressing the members of the Order. “You’re all dead.”

 

“Case in point,” snapped Amanda, giving him one last shove that sent him staggering among the group of people gathered before the altar. They formed a loose ring around him, examining him as if he were some new species of reptile. Amanda snorted and joined them. Well, they weren’t far wrong, were they?

 

“If you kill me, there won’t be anywhere on this planet you’ll be able to hide!”

 

“Something tells me he isn’t having a religious experience,” remarked Amanda acidly to Joanna, who stood beside her with her arms crossed over her chest, scowling.

 

“The Watchers will find me. They’ll find me and kill every one of you.” Shapiro glared truculently at the people who circled him. “Holy ground won’t stop them.”

 

Amanda couldn’t help glancing up at the shadowed Romanesque arches above her with a certain amount of trepidation. It wasn’t that churches in general made her nervous, despite their association with the superstitions of her childhood. They were holy ground and sanctuary, after all. But this particular church was different. This had been Darius’ church. He’d lived here, and died here, and there were legends a hell of a lot older than Methos about what happened to the quickening of an Immortal who died with no other Immortal there to receive it. If holy ground offered no safety, then why stick around?

 

“We’re well aware of that,” snarled Jochen. Amanda regarded him warily, startled by the violence in his tone. She was beginning to get the impression that he was the hothead in Joanna’s bunch. “After all, your kind had no compunction about murdering a priest before his own altar.” A muted yet angry murmur of assent rippled through the group. “To say nothing of murdering our brothers and sisters in Istanbul.”

 

“I had hoped that this place might stir the better angels of your nature, Mr. Shapiro,” cut in Joanna coolly, silencing the murmur instantly. “Certainly you must see that your plans have failed. The Watchers know what you have done. They will not be manipulated into indiscriminate warfare with Immortals now. What purpose will it serve to allow your friend—”

 

“Joe Dawson is no friend of mine!”

 

“—your friend,” repeated Joanna, “to die? He has never injured you. On the contrary, he has spared your life when he would have been justified in taking it.”

 

“He’s perverted the entire organization! The Watchers will never be the same, never!”

 

A dark-haired woman laughed. “The same as what?”

 

“Tasha is quite right. The Watchers have changed many times in ten thousand years,” said Joanna softly.

 

“You are a fool, Shapiro,” spat Jochen. “You know nothing.”

 

“And what the hell could you know about the Watchers?” shouted Shapiro, his voice echoing eerily off the stone walls.

 

Joanna smiled faintly. “Enough to appreciate the irony of your situation. In order to save the organization which you profess to love, you have unleashed its greatest enemy, killed half of the Order sworn to protect it, and condoned the killing of its founder.”

 

“Oh, man,” whispered Richie, looking as if somebody had hit him over the head with the collection plate.

 

“What?” hissed Amanda, beginning to feel left out again.

 

“You’re insane,” said Shapiro flatly, but there was a hint of doubt in his expression that hadn’t been there before.

 

“And yet she commands us,” returned Tasha. “Which would indicate, at least to me, that you are not behaving in a manner conducive to your own safety. Joanna should be humored, surely.”

 

Shapiro licked his lips nervously, his gaze darting quickly from face to face.

 

“Don’t bother trying to identify us.” Joanna sounded amused. “I’m the only one here mentioned in the Watcher records at all, and I was never identified as an Immortal.”

 

“Undocumented,” hissed Shapiro, eyes widening. “Impossible!”

 

“You murdered the only one of us who was not,” snarled Jochen. “And if Joshua were here—”

 

“Tell us where Lucius is.” Joanna cut Jochen off and held Shapiro’s gaze as if she could extract the answer from him through an act of sheer will.

 

Shapiro glowered back, silent.

 

“Do you imagine that you can useLucius Germanicus to your own ends? Manipulate him into eliminating your enemies, and then go your merry way? You delude yourself. You are a Watcher, Shapiro. That you have escaped his knives thus far indicates only that he has some use for you that he has not revealed.”

 

“She’s right, Shapiro.” Richie’s stance became more threatening. “Is getting your rocks off killing Dawson and MacLeod worth getting chopped up yourself? Because that’s what’s going to happen, sooner or later.”

 

“It won’t happen. Lucius and I have an understanding.” Shapiro’s tone was lofty, his expression contemptuous.

 

Amanda had to restrain herself from beating it off his face. “You idiot. He’s a psycho! He doesn’t do understandings. You’re in as much danger as every other Watcher, and every other friend of a Watcher.”

 

“And when he’s done with the Watchers and the friends of the Watchers, he’ll start on the families of the Watchers,” continued Richie in an ugly tone. Amanda glanced at him, startled. “You got kids, Shapiro?”

 

Shapiro went white.

 

“This is not unprecedented,” murmured Joanna. “During the march from Rheims to Constantinople, Lucius killed many children of Watchers before their parents’ eyes. He is entirely capable of such an act.”

 

“We have an understanding,” stammered Shapiro. “He wouldn’t—”

 

“He would,” returned Joanna tonelessly. “He will. You have loosed the beast, Shapiro. It is inevitable that it will come to feed at your door.”

 

“It would be no more than justice if it did.” Jochen’s voice was soft and menacing.

 

“That is Lucius’ definition of justice, not ours.” Joanna’s voice was sharp, and Jochen subsided, pressing his lips together tightly.

 

“This is getting us nowhere,” said Richie, quiet and angry. “Let me take him outside for a few—”

 

Without warning, Shapiro uttered a strangled cry and lunged at Amanda, knocking her down; he dashed back up the aisle toward the door, knocking over chairs as he went. To Amanda’s astonishment and dismay, no one pursued him.

 

“Damn it, stop him, he’s getting away!” She scrambled to her feet.

 

Joanna restrained her with a hand on her shoulder. “He’s not going anywhere.” Her voice was hushed now; Amanda became subliminally aware that all of the Order had gone very still.

 

“The doors don’t have any locks,” snapped Amanda in exasperation, dismissing the reflexive shiver that seized her, and turned back toward the man running for his life down the aisle. Shapiro was running so fast, in fact, that he ran into the doors and was forced to regain his balance before frantically tugging the handle of one door, then the other. Neither budged. Amanda watched him, dumfounded.

 

“No,” said Joanna softly. “They don’t have any locks.”

 

Shapiro abandoned his efforts and ran panic-stricken up the other aisle toward the door leading to the rectory. “Keep him away from me! Let me out of here!” He threw himself against the rectory door over and over; it didn’t move.

 

“What the hell?” whispered Amanda. “I suppose that door doesn’t have a lock either.”

 

“Keep who away from him?” Richie looked at Joanna with wide eyes.

 

“I don’t know who he sees.” Joanna’s eyes were narrowed to grey-blue slits.

 

“What have you done? How did you do this? Keep him the hell away from me!” howled Shapiro, darting back to the other doors again.

 

“If you wish to leave this place, you have only to tell us where Lucius has taken our friends.” Joanna’s voice was ice.

 

“It wasn’t me!” shouted Shapiro, his eyes focused on something that Amanda couldn’t see. “It was Horton, I didn’t know anything about it!”

 

“Shapiro! You will not be harmed if you take us to Lucius!”

 

Shapiro tore his gaze from whatever he had been addressing and stared at Joanna, panting. “I’ll take you there. I’ll take you there right now!”

 

***

 

 

“Are you certain, Marcus? He seems very devoted to you. I believe he would gladly take your place.”

 

“Find a new game, Lucius. This one was old a thousand years ago.”

 

“Mind your tongue.” Nathan’s voice was harsh.

 

Duncan’s eyes flew open; he had to blink a few times before everything stopped spinning enough for him to determine where he was—lying on his side on the cold earth floor of the adjoining room. Methos was already on the table, his wrists pinioned with leather straps. Nathan was undoing the tie to the sweat pants Methos was wearing.

 

“Or what?” Methos was breathing hard, his face white. “Things will get worse?”

 

“If you would prefer MacLeod to taste the blades first—”

 

“No.” Methos’ voice dropped to a whisper. “I wouldn’t.”

 

“Then you will display respect.”

 

Duncan tried to sit up and realized only then that he was bound tightly hand and foot—by someone who knew his business. Methos turned his head to look at him as Nathan stripped away the remainder of his clothing. “Sorry, Mac.” He was barely audible, his expression unreadable.

 

“Don’t do this, Nathan. You don’t have to do this.” Duncan could hear the raw panic in his voice and swallowed hard.

 

“Nathan is an honorable man and a loyal servant.” Lucius’ voice emanated from the darkness outside the door; strain as he might, Duncan could not see him.

 

“Which is more than can be said of his master,” spat Duncan furiously. “Hiding in the dark while your servant does your dirty work for you! You don’t even have courage enough to kill him yourself!”

 

“My master has more courage than you could possibly conceive.” Nathan yanked the last strap brutally tight and picked up his dagger; the guard’s blood still stained the blade.

 

Methos drew a quick, uneven little breath and fixed his gaze on the lantern, which was swaying slightly on its nail in a rafter over the table.

 

Duncan struggled to his knees, straining against the ropes. They only seemed to grow tighter. “Don’t. Please. I’ll take his place. Don’t—”

 

“He _will_ beg,” observed Lucius softly.

 

“Close your eyes,” rasped Methos, staring fixedly at the lantern as if it were some sort of lifeline. “Mac, close your eyes. Don’t say any—” He broke off as Nathan drew his dagger lightly across Methos’ abdomen, drawing blood. Methos pinched his eyes shut and pressed his lips firmly together, his hands clutching the sides of the table.

 

“Oh, dear God.” Duncan’s voice broke, but he forged ahead. “Please. He was your friend. He saved your life. You owe him!”

 

Nathan slid the blade into the wound and drew it across again with a surgeon’s precision, deepening the cut; Methos’ face twisted, but no sound escaped him. A trickle of blood ran across his hip to drip onto the table; Duncan groaned aloud at the sight.

 

“I owe him nothing.”

 

“You’re wrong,” shouted Duncan. “You owe him a thousand things, and the least of them is forgiveness.”

 

“His crime is beyond forgiveness.”

 

“You’re wrong,” repeated Duncan, helpless, watching as Nathan picked up another knife. “Nothing is beyond forgiveness.”

 

“For God, perhaps.”

 

“For a friend! You must have loved him once. How can you do this?”

 

“Because I loved him once!” Lucius’ voice rose to a howl. “He was my brother, and he betrayed me. He consorted with, fraternized with, _loved _my enemies—the people who abandoned me to torment. There is no greater betrayal. The one man … the one man whom I believed beyond temptation and above reproach was in fact capable of the most base, unfeeling treachery imaginable. There is no punishment severe enough, no revenge complete enough—” Lucius cut himself off; Duncan could hear his harsh breathing. “Nathan. Gag him.” His voice was trembling now; Duncan groped for a coherent response to the outburst and found none.

 

Nathan laid down his knife and pulled a piece of cloth from his jacket pocket. He squatted beside Duncan and tried to slide the gag into his mouth, but Duncan evaded him. “Think about what you’re doing! Is this the service you swore to render? Is this what your family would want you to do?”

 

Nathan stared down at him for a moment, a flash of confusion crossing his face. Then the lines of his expression hardened. “I swore to serve. The trust is sacred and cannot be violated.”

 

“Then you dishonor your family,” spat Duncan in frustration. “You dishonor the dead of Mainz. You’re no better than the murderers who killed your people, and the bastards who stuck your father’s head on a pike!”

 

Nathan shoved the gag into Duncan’s mouth and tied it tightly around his head, then shoved him against the wall, his expression now glacial. “Watch carefully, Duncan MacLeod. For however slowly Marcus Gaius dies, your death will be worse.” He strode back to the table.

 

Methos opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him as Nathan laid one hand on his chest and picked up his knife. “Mac.” Duncan could see tears in his eyes. “You’re right. Nothing is beyond forgiveness.”

 

Duncan’s vision blurred and he struggled against his bonds, knowing it was useless and unable to stop himself. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and met Methos’ gaze as steadily as he could.

 

“Don’t.” Methos’ voice was shaking now. “Sit still. Close your eyes. They’re not here. I’m not here. _You’re _not here, do you understand? Don’t watch this. Don’t listen to it. We’re not here—”

 

Nathan sliced Methos’ abdomen again, then methodically pulled a flap of skin back from the wound he had inflicted, and kept pulling it, drawing it toward Methos’ chest, slowly exposing the flesh beneath it. Methos’ head jerked back as he cried out; he clenched his teeth and somehow choked the anguished sound off at his throat.

 

Duncan screamed into the gag, squirming; he could dimly hear Joe pounding on the door in the next room, heard him shouting for Adam.

 

“You are here, Marcus Gaius.” Lucius’ breathing quickened. “You are both here. Slowly, Nathan. _‘From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer’s day.’ _Let us give Marcus’ day its full measure.”


	12. Chapter 12

The screaming stopped again, and Joe let go an anguished breath, nursing his bleeding hands. Stupid. As if pounding and shouting like some crazy man was doing any goddamn good. And yet Joe knew that if he heard that screaming again, he’d be shouting himself hoarse and beating his hands bloody again. Joe realized suddenly that he hadn’t heard Duncan’s voice in a long time. Unconscious? Dead? He must be. No matter how Duncan felt about Methos now, he would never stand for a man being tortured in front of him. For the hundredth time in the past hour, Joe blotted out the images that sprang to his mind and pressed his ear to the door.

 

Something was different. The soft, sickening murmur of Lucius’ voice had ceased, and someone was passing through the room outside the door he had become so intimately acquainted with in the past hour—someone in a hurry. He heard footsteps on the groaning wooden stairs, heard the door to the ground floor open—and then heard the sounds of shouting, swords clashing, gunfire.

 

Joe seized the latch of the door and hauled himself to his feet, a spike of adrenaline pumping through him. Damned if the cavalry hadn’t come over the hill. “Hey! Hey!” He pounded on the door with all his strength, ignoring the agonizing pain in his hands. “In here!” He pressed his ear to the door again.

 

“Down here! I swear I heard Joe.”

 

God, if anyone had ever told him that he’d ever be this glad to hear Richie Ryan’s voice, he’d have given them the address of the nearest detox tank. “Rich!” Joe pounded on the door again. “Open this damn door!”

 

“Are they here?” Amanda’s voice. Thank God.

 

“In here.” Joanna, too.

 

Joe heard the key turn in the lock and nearly fell into Richie’s arms as the door was yanked open. Richie steadied him, eyes widening.

 

“Damn. Joe. You okay, man?”

 

“Oh, my God.” Amanda’s voice was faint; Joe staggered toward the sound, toward that goddamn table, ignoring Richie’s offered arm, then halted on the threshold and sagged against the doorjamb, nearly collapsing. It seemed to Joe’s terrified, exhausted mind that every surface of the room was coated in blood. Lying in the midst of it all was Methos, dead, thank God, his chest and abdomen one long gaping wound, his skin peeled away in large patches, his eyes bleeding masses of damaged tissue.

 

Joe pinched his eyes shut and leaned his head against the doorjamb, trying hard not to throw up, not to imagine what Methos had been through in the past hour, not to remember that he’d chosen to go through it so that Joe wouldn’t. He only managed not to throw up.

 

“God,” hissed Richie. “That sick son of a bitch.” Joe felt Richie’s arm go around his shoulders.

 

“_Aba._” Joanna’s voice was barely audible.“Forgive me.”

 

“Get…get him off that thing.” Joe struggled out of Methos’ coat, staring fixedly at the splintered wood of the doorjamb. “Here. Put that on him.”

 

Richie took the coat from him and joined Joanna at the table.

 

“Cut the straps,” said Joanna. Joe started at the sound of her voice; she sounded so much like Methos in a blood rage at that moment that it took his breath away.

 

“Duncan?” Amanda’s voice broke. Joe, flinching, forced his gaze to the crumpled, bound figure lying on its side on the floor. Christ Jesus. They’d made him watch. Whatever hell Joe had been through in the past hour, at least he’d been spared that. Gritting his teeth, Joe managed to move to Amanda’s side as she knelt beside Duncan, untied his gag and tossed it aside. “Duncan. We’re here.”

 

Duncan turned his head enough to stare up at her, dull incomprehension clouding his features.

 

“Mac,” said Joe sharply, alarmed. Shock? Or had the bastards done something to him? “You okay? You with us?”

 

Duncan blinked a few times, then sat bolt upright, gasping.

 

“Shhh.” Amanda put her hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “It’s over.”

 

“Methos,” rasped Duncan, wild-eyed.

 

“Pretty bad. But his head’s still on.” Amanda drew her sword carefully across the ropes that bound Duncan’s wrists and ankles, then stroked Duncan’s hair back gently. “Are you all right?”

 

Joe grimaced at the question; Duncan looked as far from all right as Joe had ever seen him. Duncan closed his eyes for a second, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. He looked up at Joe, mute; it was all Joe could do not to groan aloud at the devastation in the man’s face. Jesus. If finding out about Darius hadn’t taken him apart, finding out about Methos just might. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Richie and Joanna lift Methos’ head and shoulders from the table and wrap the torn and bloodstained coat around his ravaged body. Duncan watched them silently, his eyes following every movement.

 

“We need to get the hell out of here,” muttered Joe, unable to stand the silence. “We need to get him someplace safe.” He heard someone behind him and turned to see a young man sprinting across the room with a gun in his hand. He recoiled instinctively.

 

“Joanna, the house is secured. There’s no sign of Nathan or Lucius,” the man panted. “We count forty-three of his men dead; half a dozen were spotted escaping.”

 

“Did we lose—?”

 

“No,” answered the man grimly. “No one this time.”

 

Joanna nodded, staring down at Methos. “Forty-three dead. God forgive me.” She shook herself. “Abandon the house. Scatter and search the immediate area, Jochen.”

 

Jochen hesitated. “Joanna, Shapiro is missing as well.”

 

“_What?_” Richie rounded on Jochen furiously. “What the hell do you mean, he’s _missing_?”

 

“Missing,” snapped Jochen. “Adjective. Absent. Lost. Lacking. Specifically, absent after combat. Tasha had to leave him to help Gregor. He’s gone.”

 

“Damn,” said Joanna quietly.

 

“We’ve got to find him,” snapped Richie. “That son of a bitch is dangerous!”

 

“I have no doubt we’ll find him wherever Lucius is. But this is not our priority now. We’ll take Methos to MacLeod’s barge. Bring my bag to me there, Jochen, he’ll need morphine.”

 

Jochen nodded, and with one last black look at Richie, jogged back toward the stairs.

 

“The barge? Are you nuts?” Joe swung toward Joanna in disbelief. “That’s the first place they’ll look!”

 

“There are precious few left to look,” returned Joanna bleakly. “And the handful that escaped probably won’t stop running until they reach the border. Nathan and Lucius—and Shapiro—are most likely on their own now.”

 

“Nathan, Lucius and Shapiro are enough,” snapped Joe. “Just open that coat if you don’t believe me.”

 

“Try to trust me, Joe. I won’t endanger him again.”

 

“But the barge—”

 

“It’s comfortable; we can care for him there. It moves. It’s surrounded by water. And on the outside chance that any of Lucius’ men should reform and try to find him, it is probably the last place they will look.”

 

Duncan struggled to his feet, ignoring Amanda’s offer of help. Joe watched, startled, as he lifted Methos into his arms, cradling him gently against his chest, and stared down at the bloody face as if he were seeing it for the first time.

 

“Mac?” Richie sounded really scared for the first time since this whole damn thing had started.

 

“Let’s go,” said Duncan dully.

 

***

 

 

_I think it is time to indulge Duncan MacLeod._

_No._

_He is so eager to take your place._

_No. Finish it._

“Methos.”

 

_No? Perhaps Joseph Dawson then._

_I’ll stay! Finish it!_

“Methos, it’s all right.”

 

Methos clawed the table under his hands, but it gave way. Soft. Warm. The hellish pain that started behind his eyes and radiated down his torso spiked mercilessly, and he let himself scream his answer. “No! I’ll stay! I’ll stay. I’ll—”

 

“Adam,” came a broken voice in his ear. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

 

“Joe?” Methos groaned, horrified. They’d brought him in here. He could see this. “Joe.”

 

“Hang on,” rasped Joe. “Jochen’s bringing some morphine. He’ll be here any minute, just hang on.”

 

“Where the hell is that son of a bitch?” Someone was shouting nearby, angry.

 

“Rich. Keep it down.” A woman’s voice.

 

Methos felt someone stroke his hair and gasped, involuntarily flinching away. The movement exacerbated the pain, and he cried out again.

 

“It’s me.” The voice was thick and unsteady. “You’re safe, Methos.”

 

“Mac,” whispered Methos. Hadn’t Nathan gagged him? He could have sworn Nathan had gagged him.

 

“Yes. I’m here.” Methos felt the warmth of Duncan’s body on his right and knew he was close. “You’re going to be all right.”

 

A door slammed. “Got it.”

 

“About fucking time! Where did that asshole go for it, Moscow?” Richie’s voice was shaking.

 

Methos sensed movement near him and drew a breath, stiffening, bracing himself for more pain. “_Aba. _It is I.” Greek. Joanna? “This will ease your pain.” He felt a swift, barely detectable pinprick on his right arm.

 

“Joanna,” he rasped in confusion.

 

“Yes. You are safe now.”

 

Safe. Joanna. “Joe,” he gasped, comprehension beginning to seep through. “Mac?”

 

“They’re right beside you.”

 

Methos felt a bandaged hand touch his forehead. “Take it easy. We’re okay.” Methos groped to his left; someone took his wandering hand gently.

 

“Joe.” Methos would have laughed if he’d had the strength. “Joe.”

 

“The one and only. Don’t talk.”

 

“Mac.”

 

“Right here.” Duncan’s voice was strange, shaken. “Just rest now.”

 

Methos drew as deep a breath as he could manage, and groaned as his damaged muscles protested. “Amanda. Richie.”

 

“They’re all right. Dammit, Adam, can the nanny shit and heal, will you?” Joe’s voice broke; Methos felt Joe’s beard brush his cheek as he lowered his head to Methos’ pillow. Pillow?

 

“All your dear ones are safe and with you, _aba_,” murmured Joanna in Greek. “I won’t allow harm to come to them again.”

 

“You found us,” replied Methos in the same language, turning toward the sound of her voice. The pain began, slowly, to recede.

 

“With help.”

 

“Where are we?”

 

“On the barge, moving toward Notre Dame. You must not talk now. Sleep.”

 

Methos sighed, allowing the lassitude of the morphine to take his body. “Lucius?” He felt Joe stiffen beside him.

 

“Don’t worry about him,” whispered Duncan.

 

“He escaped,” murmured Methos, not surprised.

 

There was a moment of silence. “Yes.” Joanna was barely audible.

 

“We’ll get the son of a bitch.” Methos had never heard that sort of anger in Richie’s voice before. “You just leave that to us.”

 

“Yes,” said Duncan, in a savage tone that shook Methos to his core. “Leave him to us, Methos.”

 

“No.” Methos fought the surge of panic that rose in him; he groped wildly for Duncan. “You’re not going anywhere. Joanna. Don’t let them—”

 

“No one is going anywhere,” said Joanna firmly.

 

“Don’t let them leave.” Methos tried to sit up and fell back, gasping.

 

Joe swore and laid his hand on Methos’ forehead. “Adam, keep still! They’re not leaving. I’ll sit on them if I have to.”

 

“Great,” said Methos between clenched teeth as the agony in his abdomen reasserted itself. “Who sits on you?”

 

“Lie still!” Duncan was at his right side again, taking Methos’ seeking hand in his own.

 

“You’re not leaving this damn boat without me,” rasped Methos desperately. “None of you.”

 

“All right. All right.” Duncan’s voice was ragged, shaking. “Just lie still. We won’t leave.”

 

“Your word,” persisted Methos, thanking God that MacLeod was boy scout enough that his word meant something. “You won’t go anywhere without me.”

 

“You have my word,” whispered Duncan. “Nowhere without you. Now lie still. Please.” Methos felt Duncan bending low over him. “Please.”

 

Methos went still, still breathing hard, startled. There was something wrong in Duncan’s voice. “Mac?”

 

A finger was laid on his lips. “Please. Sleep. You need to heal now.”

 

Methos drew a shaky breath and let himself sink into the pillows. He felt Joe stretch out beside him on his left, his hand sliding from Methos’ forehead to his shoulder. “M’okay, Joe,” he murmured, wondering as Duncan’s hand left his lips and settled in his hair.

 

“Shut up. I’ve seen road kill that looked better than you, pal.” Joe sounded wearier than Methos had ever heard him.

 

“But road kill doesn’t have my boyish charm,” mumbled Methos.

 

“Methos. Shut up,” said Duncan unevenly. Methos felt blankets being tucked around him as exhaustion finally overwhelmed him.

 

***

 

 

“When I was four years old, there was drought and famine in the countryside. The family who had taken me in was forced to sell me.”

 

Duncan started awake at the sound of the soft voice. Methos lay asleep beside him, his face turned toward him enough for Duncan to see the bloodied eyelids beginning to swell over the regenerating tissue beneath. Joe lay on his side on Methos’ left, dozing lightly, one hand still resting on Methos’ shoulder.

 

“The slave merchant who bought me took me with a dozen other slaves to Ur, to be sold in the great marketplace there. It was a long walk.”

 

Duncan glanced toward the sound of the voice and spotted Amanda and Richie lounging on the sofa and chair a few feet away. Joanna was standing with her back to them, staring out a porthole into the dark.

 

“He was a cruel man. Even to the children among us. Several died along the way and were left unburied by the side of the road for the carrion eaters to feed upon. I would not have survived had it not been for an elderly woman who cared for me. She shared her water and carried me for many miles. Her name was Ruth. I don’t remember the merchant’s name.”

 

Duncan stroked Methos’ hair gently, noting in dismay the lines of pain in his friend’s face. Methos was in pain, even in his sleep. Duncan swallowed hard. He should never have allowed this to happen. Methos should not have been put through this. Not any of it. Duncan had done nothing but fail him from the moment Cassandra had drawn her sword on him.

 

 “Ruth died by the time we reached the outskirts of Ur. I remember holding her head in my lap, crying. The merchant was angry that I was not keeping up with the others, and struck me with his whip.”

 

Duncan reached out to touch Methos’ hair, his face. Had it come to this? Was he this blind, this obstinate, this prideful? Did a man have to die before his eyes before Duncan could admit he’d made a mistake? Before he could acknowledge his feelings?

 

 “A man on a horse was passing by and saw this. He was very richly dressed, and was followed by a retinue of servants. He dismounted and seized the merchant’s whip from his hand as he was about to strike me again. He threw the man into the sewage ditch at the side of the road, pulled two silver coins from his belt pouch—at least five times what I was worth at market—and threw them into the muck beside him. Then he set me before him on his horse and took me to his house.” Joanna laughed softly. “I thought he was a king.”

 

Duncan tucked the blankets around Methos. He loved this man. God only knew how long he’d loved him. Probably from the moment he’d caught that damned beer can. What sort of bullheaded idiot doesn’t know when he’s in love?

 

“He raised me as a man raises his daughter. I lacked for nothing. None of us did. There was not a slave or servant in his household that would not have died for him. He cared for us. He protected us. He was our father.”

 

Methos, a loving father. Forty-eight hours ago, Duncan would have laughed himself sick at the idea. Now he knew better. Methos was a study in contradictions—he’d lived too long to be anything else. He’d been capable of deeper hatred and deeper love, deeper selfishness and deeper generosity, deeper barbarism and deeper compassion, than anyone Duncan had ever known. Methos had told him that he’d been many things. Duncan had dismissed the statement as evasion, but he knew now that it had been the simple truth. The man lying beside him was as baffling and beautiful an enigma as had ever existed. Duncan doubted he’d ever be able to understand his friend completely, but one thing had sung loud and clear in the past few hours: he wanted nothing more in this life than the chance, the commitment, to make that attempt. He loved Methos. He wanted him. He needed him in his life more than any friend or lover he’d ever had.

 

Methos stirred, opened his eyes and looked vaguely in Duncan’s general direction. Duncan flinched at the sight of the half-healed, bloody eyes. They weren’t focused on him; Methos was still blind. “Mac?” he murmured groggily.

 

“I’m here. Go back to sleep,” Duncan whispered back, moving even closer. Why in God’s name had Methos tolerated Duncan putting him through this hell? Rejection, insults, and violence had been met with nothing but the most profound loyalty Duncan had ever witnessed in a friend. He groaned inwardly as Methos’ eyes closed again, his face drawn and jaw set against the pain. “Do you need more morphine?”

 

 “No.” Methos groped in his direction; Duncan took his hand and held it, let Methos squeeze it hard until the pain receded. Methos relaxed again, breathing hard, still holding Duncan’s hand.

 

Why? Why had Methos stayed? Protected him? Endangered himself for him over and over again? What motivation would have been sufficient to…? Duncan’s train of thought slowed and lurched to a trembling stop.

 

“Are you all right?” It was no more than a sigh; Methos was already falling asleep again.

 

Duncan stared at him, the answer to his question robbing him of speech for a moment. “Yes,” he whispered, caressing the hand he was holding. “Sleep, Methos.” Methos was asleep before he finished speaking.

 

Joanna’s low murmur filled the silence. “He is my family, my first trust. His well-being should have come first. But I forgot this. I allowed my promise to Sebastian—to Darius—to consume me, to outweigh all other considerations.”

 

“It was a hell of a promise,” said Richie softly. “I guess letting it consume you was the only way to get the job done.”

 

“But the job isn’t done.” Joanna swung away from the porthole to pace the room. Duncan caught sight of her anguished expression as she moved. “Methos was right. How many innocents have died because I would not permit Lucius to be killed? How much agony did Methos endure tonight because of that promise?”

 

“Methos will be all right.” Amanda’s voice was unusually gentle.

 

“You don’t understand. I believed there was a reason for keeping Lucius alive. I believed it was best for everyone concerned. Sebastian—Darius—was so certain that it would be.”

 

Duncan closed his eyes. Who had the man he’d called Darius really been? When Richie had first told him the story of Sebastian’s death, he had rejected it out of hand. It was contrary to everything he’d ever been taught or had experienced. But Richie had been right. God only knew how old this legendary holy man at the gates of Paris had been. What did he know of the truly ancient Immortals, the ones who walked this planet long before Methos was born? He’d been wrong about so much, closed his eyes to so much. He wasn’t going to do that again.

 

“Which one?” Richie’s voice was somber.

 

“What?”

 

“Who was certain? Darius or Sebastian?”

 

Joanna laughed, but the sound was strained. “Both, in a way. Sebastian held all of Darius’ memories. And he insisted that we call him Darius. He had no wish to elude responsibility for the acts committed by what was now a part of himself.”

 

“_Merde. _Do we really have to get metaphysical here?” Amanda sounded peevish. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

 

“He seemed to see the future so clearly, to have such faith that what we were doing would come to be a blessing in the end.”

 

“How?” Richie sounded surprised.

 

“I asked him that once. He just smiled and asked me if I trusted him.”

 

“And you did.”

 

“And I did. But now the Order has been decimated. Lucius is at liberty, I have taken lives, and Methos has been….” Duncan heard Joanna’s voice break and her uneven breathing. “I don’t know what to do.”

 

“I guess it comes down to whether or not you still trust him.”

 

“I trust him,” said Joanna unevenly. “Perhaps it’s myself I don’t trust.”

 

“You two talk about him like he’s still here,” burst out Amanda nervously. “He’s dead.”

 

Duncan smiled faintly to himself, the sound of their familiar voices lulling him back to sleep. Still here? Of course he was. The image of Darius, standing in the door of his church, smiling in welcome, had appeared to him when he had needed that welcome most. It had drawn him inside, half-deranged with a dark quickening, to the sanctuary of St. Julien’s, where Methos had found him. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d never asked Methos how he’d known he’d be there. If he’d been sane, it would have been his first refuge, of course; but Methos had known damn well Duncan wasn’t sane. He’d just watched Duncan butcher an old and dear friend, threaten to kill Methos, and roar off into the night. It had been one hell of a leap in the dark for Methos to seek Duncan out on the holy ground of St. Julien’s. Duncan could still hear that soft voice, speaking earnestly of personal salvation and not being alone.

 

Joanna’s voice was very soft. “Define dead.”

 

Exhaustion claimed Duncan before he could hear Amanda’s answer.

 

***

 

 

“I didn’t bring them. I didn’t know they were there!”

 

Lucius stared at the miserable creature groveling on the floor before him. It was indeed a very, very stupid dog, and its whining was growing increasingly tiresome. “Indeed. You are shockingly imperceptive.”

 

“They must have followed me.”

 

“You are followed by full fifty people and do not notice?” Nathan’s lip curled. “I think not.”

 

Shapiro licked his lips nervously. “I swear it’s true.”

 

“Do not presume to imagine that you could possibly deceive me, dog.” Lucius shifted slightly in discomfort. Their current accommodations were significantly less well-appointed than those to which he had become accustomed, and this cur was largely responsible. It was absurdly clear that it had outlived whatever limited usefulness it had once offered.

 

“You’ve already been deceived, and not by me,” blurted Shapiro, glancing with transparent apprehension in Nathan’s direction as he approached.

 

“Enough. Dispose of this creature in the appropriate manner, Nathan.”

 

“No! No, listen to me!” Shapiro’s voice rose in naked panic. “They’ve lied to you. They’ve lied to all of us. Darius isn’t dead!”

 

Lucius nodded Nathan still and examined Shapiro carefully, concealing his leaping heart and racing mind. It could be lying, and probably was. But he detected some grain of truth in the dog’s eyes. Darius, alive, and subject to his justice? It was all he had dreamed of for fifteen hundred years. The news of his death at the hands of Watchers had tasted of nothing but ashes and despair. If it had indeed been a deception…. “Explain,” he ordered.

 

“I’ve seen him. He was in St. Julien’s. They must have been hiding him there all this time.”

 

The grain of truth was now a spark. The dog had obviously seen something in the fiend’s sanctuary, something that had frightened it. “And what were you doing in Darius’ chapel, dog? Have you embraced the teachings of mother church?”

 

“I…followed Joanna there.”

 

A lie.

 

“She knew Darius was there. She wasn’t surprised when he showed himself.”

 

A truth.

 

“That’s why I came to your house tonight, to tell you.”

 

Another lie.

 

“She must have spotted me and had me followed.”

 

And another. The dog had spent its limited store of truth and was now howling for the sake of noise. It was an extreme annoyance. Lucius nodded to Nathan, who came forward, seized Shapiro by the hair, and hauled him onto his back on the floor.

 

“No!” shrieked Shapiro, struggling to rise again. “I helped you! You owe me!”

 

Strange that he should hear the same argument from two such very different men in one night. But if this argument had failed to persuade in the case of Marcus Gaius, who had indeed rendered him unselfish service, then the cause of this dog was certainly not served by it. “I shall pay you exactly what you are owed.”

 

Nathan pinned the squirming man to the floor and ripped open his shirt, then pulled out his knife. Shapiro let loose a full-throated scream at the sight.

 

Lucius barked contemptuously. “Your good faith has proven somewhat deficient, dog. I have therefore decided to return your gift.”

 

***

 

 

Methos opened his eyes reluctantly to the dim pre-dawn light, silently relishing the absence of pain. His first sight was Joe, who was curled up close to him, one arm thrown in an unconsciously protective gesture across Methos’ chest. Duncan was asleep, too, his hand curled loosely around Methos’. Methos swallowed hard as he scanned the room. Amanda was asleep on the couch, sword in hand. Duncan’s katana was lying beside her. Richie was asleep in the chair, clutching his sword. They all looked completely exhausted.

 

Guarding him. They were all guarding him, for God’s sake. Joanna and whatever other members of the Order not searching for Lucius were no doubt on deck, forming the first line of defense. So bloody typical of them, and of Clan MacLeod. Didn’t they understand that they were in as much danger, if not more, than he was? They should have left him here to heal and gotten the hell out of Paris as fast as they could. They were all hopeless.

 

Methos very gently eased his hand out from under Duncan’s, then slipped Joe’s arm slowly off his chest.

 

“Hey,” mumbled Joe without opening his eyes.

 

“Shhh.” Methos laid Joe’s arm on the bed.

 

“Where’re you goin’? You healed?”

 

“Yeah. Be right back.” Methos drew the covers up around Joe, wincing at his haggard appearance. “Go to sleep.”

 

“Don’t try to pull anything.” Joe opened one sleepy eye. “Got an army up there, you know. Smokin’ Joe Dawson’s Nannies to Go now has an Ancient Auxiliary.”

 

Methos grinned in spite of everything; he couldn’t help himself. “You’re just eating that up, aren’t you? You’re a dangerous man, Joseph.”

 

“Damn straight.”

 

“Come with me to the head, there might be bugs in there.”

 

“Up yours.” Joe closed his eye again, smiling.

 

Methos felt his throat tighten. Yielding to an impulse, he leaned over and kissed Joe on the temple, then hastily climbed off the end of the bed, careful not to jar either man. “Not on the first date, pal,” came Joe’s affectionate mumble behind him. Methos moved as steadily as he could into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Staggering to the sink, he leaned against it and stared in horror at the bloody spectacle he saw in the mirror.

 

Swearing softly, he glanced down at himself. He was dressed in his coat, which was now bloodstained and tattered, and nothing else. Sighing, he let the coat fall to the floor, then got into the tub and ran some warm water. He washed the gore from his body, then stuck his head under the faucet and rinsed the blood from his hair and face. It took a while to get clean.

 

Methos knew he should be thinking about what he and this gang of lunatics, who’d apparently surgically attached themselves to him, should do next. He should be trying to anticipate Lucius’ next move. He should be forming a plan to protect his family, and himself. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t think at all. He was exhausted and numb and without any inkling of an idea of what to do about Lucius or anything else.

 

Methos turned off the water, climbed out of the tub, and methodically toweled himself off. Then, without any other choice, he put the coat on again, grimacing at the feel of the crusted blood against his skin. He needed some fresh air to clear his head. Then he’d figure out how to get Clan MacLeod out of harm’s way, whether they liked it or not.

 

He opened the bathroom door and crept past Amanda and Richie to the door to the deck, which stood open. A tall, fair-haired Immortal man turned from his watch on the water to face him.

 

“Raphael,” said Methos, smiling in surprise and recognition.

 

“My lord,” replied Raphael softly, bowing slightly.

 

Methos laughed uncomfortably. “I haven’t been anything like a lord in a long time.”

 

“You will always be so to me.”

 

Methos briefly thanked whatever deities present that Joe wasn’t here to hear this; he would never have heard the end of it. “Thank you.”

 

“Joanna is in the pilot house. Shall I summon her?”

 

“No. I just need some time alone to think.”

 

“The bow is unoccupied.”

 

“And visible from every area of the deck,” returned Methos wryly.

 

Raphael blinked. “Truly, my lord? What a fortunate coincidence.”

 

Methos chuckled and offered the man his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Raph.”

 

“As it is to see you, my lord.” Raphael took his hand warmly; he was smiling as Methos turned toward the bow.

 

Methos saw half a dozen Immortals on the deck as he made his way forward through the mist, and sensed a good many others he couldn’t see. Joanna was taking no chances with his safety. He moved as far forward has he possibly could, studying the sky and water, enjoying the feel of the clean wind on his skin. The sun would be rising soon. He would need a plan by then. But the future eluded him. His thoughts were rooted in the recent past, in the horror and agony of that little room in the wine cellar. And of Duncan.

 

***

 

 

It was dark, too dark to run so quickly through such thick woods. Yet he ran wildly, heart pounding in his ears as he fended off with bleeding hands the tendrils of vine and small limbs that ensnared him and knocked him off balance. His limbs were weak with the effort of many hours of flight, and the taste of his own blood was on his tongue as he labored for breath. Every movement caused a fresh parting of the barely rejoined flesh around an agonizing wound in his side, preventing its healing. The cold night air cut through his wet clothing and sliced into his skin; his feet ached as if from long submersion in icy water. Behind him an enraged and frenzied chorus of raised voices echoed briefly and then struck flatly against the ancient tree boles. An occasional glint of torchlight glared upon limbs and leaves, casting wild and deep shadows. He dodged the flicker of light and stumbled into a shallow hollow in the darkness, leaning one hand against a tree as he struggled to breathe.

 

_Not my hand._

He managed with difficulty to focus his attention on the hand resting against the rough bark. Long, slender fingers.... Pale skin visible under the blood....

 

A loud cry behind him started his legs moving again, moving up the gentle slope out of the hollow; but he was almost immediately cut off by a rapidly approaching band of torch flames, each swaying to its own erratic, searching rhythm as the man holding it tried to pierce the pitch shadows of the trees. He turned to his left and pelted away at as rapid a pace as his exhausted body would permit, gasping from pain and shortness of breath at every step. A large outcropping of rock provided temporary cover, and he paused again, leaning his back against the cold crags and looking down to examine his wound.

 

_Not my clothes._

The body beneath his hands was long and lean, and dressed in white linen. Who...? How...?

 

“Demon!”

 

The hoarse shout came from his left, and he instinctively ran in the opposite direction, only to collide with the forest of human limbs that had waited, amid the smoke of doused torches, to enmesh him. He was thrown violently to the ground and savagely kicked as his arms were bound tightly behind him.

 

“We have caught the demon; his servants have escaped us.”

 

“He will tell us where they have gone.”

 

A blow to the base of his skull sent him wandering through a dark forest of a different kind; a forest of terrified faces, of flames lighting the night sky, of screams from both fleeing and dying, and of blood. It gave way, slowly, to the sensation of the sapling he was chained to digging into his back as yet another knife sank into his abdomen. He heard screaming—his own screams, and yet not so. The guttural muttering of harsh voices cut into his ears as incessantly as the knives cut into his flesh.

 

“Where are they? Your daughter? Your servants? Speak!”

 

“Far away. You’ll never find them.”

 

_Not his voice._

 

“Where? In which direction are they headed?”

 

“Damn you! Leave them alone!”

 

“You will tell us soon, demon.”

 

An agonizing death came, then an agonizing rebirth; then death again...and again...and again. His throat’s death rattle became as familiar and as welcome as the ancient lullabies he dimly remembered hearing sung long ago. The torchlight revealed faces made brutal with hatred and terror.

 

“He lives again.”

 

“The tales are true; he cannot die.”

 

“He must be destroyed.”

 

“Fire. Fire will destroy him. Burn him!”

 

_Not me. It’s not me. It’s...._

Wood was hastily stacked around him and in his lap; then both he and the wood were doused liberally with oil.

 

“We send you back to the realm of demons, Methos of Ur.”

 

The stench and heat of the torch reached him long seconds before he saw the flame; long enough to sense it coming, long enough to writhe against his bonds in desperation. He did not actually see the flame until it was thrust into his face, igniting his long hair. He screamed, pulling away from the small blaze before his eyes in a senseless and futile attempt to separate himself from it. The torch traveled down his clothing, setting it ablaze also, and then was shoved into the pile of wood. His entire body was engulfed in flames almost instantly, and the piercing torment of fire consuming his flesh enveloped him, forcing a constant, high-pitched shriek from his throat as he thrashed wildly and pointlessly in his chains.

 

“_Methos!_”

 

“Whoa! Easy, easy!” Someone grabbed his shoulders, and Duncan shoved him away roughly. He stared into the man’s face for a few seconds before he recognized him. Joe sat in the bed beside him, eyes wide, one hand still gripping Duncan’s shoulder firmly. “It’s me.”

 

“Mac,” said Richie shakily. “Breathe, man. It was a nightmare.”

 

Duncan pulled his gaze from Joe to stare at Richie, then Amanda, then Joanna. “Methos,” he rasped his heart still pounding. “Where’s Methos?”

 

“He’s up on deck,” said Joanna. “Raphael was here a moment ago to let us know.”

 

“On deck? Are you out of your mind?” Duncan struggled out of the bed, tripping over the sheets, and fell to his hands and knees. “With that madman out there looking for him?”

 

“He isn’t alone, Duncan.” Amanda helped him to his feet, visibly shaken.

 

“There are twenty Immortals up there, half of whom owe Methos their lives.” Joanna came forward with a glass of water. “They would die before they would allow harm to come to him. Drink.”

 

Duncan took the glass in his shaking hand, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to ask for something stronger. Much stronger. He sank to sit on the bed and downed the water in one gulp. “Any news of Lucius?”

 

“The rest of my people are still searching. They haven’t found anything yet.”

 

“You should send some of your people here into town.”

 

“Not a chance,” said Joanna grimly. “That would leave us with too few to defend the barge. I won’t risk any of you again.”

 

“If we don’t find that psycho soon, he’s going to hire himself some fresh goons and come looking for _us_.” Richie started pacing.

 

“This is ridiculous,” snapped Amanda. “We can’t possibly search all of Paris. We don’t even know he’s still in the city.”

 

“He’s here. He knows Methos is alive. He won’t leave until he’s dead.” Joanna’s voice was flat, expressionless, but it made Duncan’s stomach turn over.

 

“Son of a bitch.” Richie’s voice went thick with emotion. “He’ll have to go through me first.”

 

“Get in line,” muttered Joe, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to sit beside Duncan.

 

“Maybe we’re coming at this from the wrong end,” said Duncan quietly, relieved to see his hands steadying. Methos had been right. The whiskey had only made things worse.

 

Joanna shot him a quizzical look. “Which end do you suggest?”

 

“Shapiro.”

 

“Why would he be any easier to track than Lucius?” demanded Amanda impatiently.

 

Duncan shrugged. “He’s the weakest link. I doubt he’s enjoying the company he’s keeping.”

 

Richie snorted. “Yeah, that’s a safe bet. Lucius isn’t stupid. He’s got to know Shapiro didn’t bring us to his house for milk and cookies. Shapiro’s not going to stay alive if he doesn’t give Lucius something else to think about.”

 

Duncan looked up, startled. “Something to think about?”

 

“Don’t start that again,” sighed Amanda, sinking onto the couch.

 

Richie threw himself into the chair beside her. “Come on, Amanda. He was scared shitless. And what about the doors?”

 

“What about them? They were stuck.”

 

“Right. Stuck. You can bet your life that’s not what he tells Lucius.”

 

“Tell Lucius? Why the hell would he tell Lucius?”

 

Richie snorted again. “What else has he got?”

 

“So he tells him what? That he had a Jacob Marley moment in downtown Paris? What is that going to buy him?”

 

“What the hell are you two talking about?” snapped Joe.

 

“Shapiro freaked out in the church. He was talking to someone who wasn’t there.” Amanda crossed her arms across her chest and glared at Richie as if daring him to contradict her.

 

“To someone we couldn’t see,” corrected Richie, looking at Duncan.

 

Duncan felt a stab of unease he couldn’t quite define. “Who?”

 

“Who knows? Do I know what bottle he was drinking from?” Amanda glared at him as if he were personally responsible for her unsettling experience.

 

“I think we know who it was,” retorted Richie over his shoulder.

 

“What are you saying?” demanded Joe. “Spell it out for me, Rich, I don’t have all my oars in the water at the moment.”

 

“He saw Darius, man. He saw Darius.” Richie was uncharacteristically sober, almost reverent.

 

“He said that?” Joe’s voice turned sharp.

 

“I think what’s important is what he says to Lucius.” Duncan regarded Joanna soberly. “Maybe you should have one of your people keep an eye on St. Julien’s.” He rose from the bed and yanked open a drawer, pulling out a sweatshirt and a pair of sweat pants, then snatched up a spare blanket from the bed. “Joe, for God’s sake, go back to sleep. You look like hell. I’m going to check on Methos.”

 

“Yeah,” said Joe vaguely. “You do that.”

 

***

 

 

Methos stood very still on the edge of the bow, eyes closed. God, Duncan had begged to take Methos’ place. Even after he’d been gagged, he had continued to beg. Even after Nathan had taken his eyes, he could hear Duncan screaming with him at every slice and stab of the knife. Thank God Joanna had reached them in time, before Lucius had either taken Methos’ head or broken him. The thought of Duncan on that table was more than he could stand. It had been such a close thing. Surviving torture was usually a matter of retreating deep enough within yourself that the pain and horror couldn’t reach you. But doing that would have meant rendering himself unaware of what Duncan was going through. He couldn’t do that. He hadn’t even been able to make the attempt.

 

What was the hold the man had over him? Duncan had brought out parts of himself he had thought long buried under the weight of centuries. He had a power over Methos that in its own way was more terrifying than anything Lucius could do. What in God’s name was it about this mad Scot that made him act like such a fool?

 

“My lord does not wish to be disturbed.”

 

Methos started at the unexpected proximity of the voice. Raphael had evidently taken it upon himself to guard his privacy.

 

“I brought him something to wear.”

 

Methos sighed. Duncan. Nanny Prime was back on line and had tracked him to his sanctuary. What a surprise.

 

“I will give them to him.” Raphael’s voice was laced with suspicion.

 

“It’s all right, Raphael,” called Methos softly over his shoulder. He watched the changing colors on the horizon as Duncan’s footsteps approached him.

 

“You must be freezing.” The voice was soft. Hesitant.

 

“No. I’m fine.” Methos glanced at his friend and felt his throat tighten at the battered, lost look on Duncan’s face. “But thanks.”

 

“Here.” Duncan handed him some sweatpants from the pile of cloth draped over his arm.

 

“I seem to have gone through a lot of your clothes recently.” Methos shimmied into the pants gratefully, pulling the drawstring as tight as it would go.

 

“Yeah,” said Duncan quietly. “I’ll bill you later. Get this on.” He handed him a sweatshirt. “And get that damn coat off.” His voice shook.

 

Methos let the coat fall to the deck and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. “Thanks, Mac,” he managed.

 

“I woke up and you weren’t there.” He draped a blanket around Methos’ shoulders and pulled it around him tightly. “Scared the hell out of me for a minute.”

 

“Sorry,” whispered Methos, caught off guard by the naked feeling in Duncan’s eyes. “I just wanted to see the sunrise.”

 

“Mind if I join you?” Duncan looked and sounded profoundly unsure of his welcome.

 

“Of course not.” Methos shook his head and turned toward the horizon again, both relieved and strangely unnerved by the presence of the man standing with a shoulder pressed to his. They stood in silence for a few seconds.

 

“Methos.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’ve missed you.”

 

Methos closed his eyes for a second, a hundred flippant, heart-shielding responses leaping to his mind.

 

“I’ve missed you badly.” Duncan’s voice broke, and the hundred disappeared into the morning mist.

 

“I’ve missed you too,” whispered Methos, trying not to think about how pathetically inadequate those words were to describe the gaping wound that had opened when Duncan had ejected him from his life.

 

“Methos—”

 

“Badly.”

 

Duncan’s arm went around Methos’ shoulders. “I think I know why we’ve been so angry with each other,” he said in a strange, breathless voice.

 

“You do?” Methos shot Duncan a curious look, surprised.

 

Duncan turned from the horizon to look Methos in the eye. “Yes.” He gently turned Methos to face him, pulling him close. Puzzled, Methos stared at his friend as Duncan traced the line of his jaw, then drew a startled breath as Duncan leaned in, head tilted, eyes closing, lips parted slightly. Methos let his eyes drift shut just as Duncan’s mouth touched his.

 

The touch was so chaste at first that Methos was mildly astonished when every muscle he possessed gave way. He sagged against Duncan bonelessly, gasping into the kiss as Duncan wrapped both arms firmly around him. Methos jerked involuntarily in the embrace as Duncan’s tongue brushed his lips, jolting him violently out of shock and into hunger, the sort of ravenous hunger he hadn’t known since he’d last starved to death, over a century ago. He _had_ been starving, starving for this, from this man, for God only knew how long. Groaning, he opened his mouth and drew Duncan inside him, urging him on with light, hot, wet touches of lips and tongue. Duncan caressed every surface of Methos’ mouth and tongue with a tender urgency that made Methos groan again and twist his shaking fingers into Duncan’s shirt, pulling him even closer. It seemed a long time and a world away when that loving tongue finally retreated. Methos lowered his forehead to Duncan’s shoulder, breathing hard.

 

“Oh,” said Methos faintly, stunned.

 

“Oh,” breathed Duncan in his ear. “I love you.”

 

Methos fought an irrational and completely inappropriate impulse to laugh. All the mystery, the angst, the philosophical and psychological delving into the meaning of life, Immortality and the eternal pain in the ass that was Duncan MacLeod, and _this_ was the answer? There was truly no fool like an old one.

His every encounter with Duncan MacLeod cascaded past his mind’s eye, each one perceived with fresh perspective. God. He’d told Duncan who he was seconds after meeting him. He’d offered him his head less than twenty-four hours later. He’d spent the past three years trying to protect him at ridiculous risk to himself. When their friendship had faltered, he’d fallen into a drunken, suicidal depression that would very likely have been fatal, had it not been for the absurd intervention of Nannies to Go. Exactly when had he fallen in love with this windmill-tilting child? The moment he’d laid eyes on him? Very likely.

 

And when exactly had Duncan decided that he loved Methos?

 

“Mac.” Methos lifted his head and met Duncan’s anxious gaze squarely, struggling to frame a coherent thought. “I’m the same man I was yesterday, two weeks ago, six months ago.”

 

“Yes. I know you are. But I’m not.” Duncan kissed his forehead, and Methos felt his jaw drop at the admission. Well, if the boat hadn’t rocked before, it was rocking now. “Please. Tell me I’m not too late. Tell me I was right.”

 

“You’re not too late,” said Methos weakly, letting Duncan keep him upright. “You were right, Duncan.”

 

Duncan sighed in open relief and kissed his temple. “I’m an idiot, Methos.”

 

“Yeah, well,” murmured Methos wryly, leaning into the caress. “The queue forms here.”

 

“Forgive me,” whispered Duncan. “God, what I’ve put you through.”

 

“Mac, it wasn’t just you.”

 

“I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t see you at all.”

 

“God knows I made it as difficult for you to accept as I possibly could,” said Methos quietly, knowing it was true. “I’m as much to blame as you are.”

 

“No. I had no right to judge you. None. I don’t know how I forgot who you are, but I did. I even forgot what you’ve done for me. I forgot everything that was important. Everything, except that I was angry.”

 

“You had good reason to be angry.” Methos forced his eyes open. “I was cruel.”

 

Duncan actually flinched. “No. No, you—”

 

“I was cruel, Mac. I do cruel very well.”

 

“You do kind better. If you didn’t, I’d be dead now, half a dozen times over.”

 

“I was furious,” confessed Methos quietly. “As if you could be expected to make good on my absurd fantasies. I’m sorry.”

 

“Fantasies?”

 

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Methos hastily evaded his searching gaze, shocked that he might have revealed too much, even to himself.

 

“It matters. It’s important to me. Please.”

 

Well, that was vintage MacLeod. Always wanting to hear truths he wasn’t ready for. Truths that _Methos _wasn’t ready for. But Methos knew he couldn’t deny Duncan anything today. “It was just a lie I told myself. That you already knew. All of you. That you accepted it. That you still liked me. That you all loved me, in fact, and wanted me around. It was a hell of a lot more pleasant than the plain fact that I was deceiving you, and that the moment you learned the truth I’d be cast out.” Methos saw the horror in Duncan’s face, heard his own voice break, and cursed under his breath, turning his head to survey the reddening clouds on the horizon. “I’m quite capable of bending reality when sufficiently motivated, you know. And this little clan is more motivation than I’ve had in a long time.”

 

“Clan,” whispered Duncan, eyes wide and face white, as if some revelation had dawned for him. “Kin.”

 

Methos’ eyes stung. “Yes.”

 

“God. Methos.”

 

Methos forced a dismissive laugh from his lungs, but couldn’t speak.

 

“You _are_ kin.” Duncan yanked him closer. “What I did was….” He buried his face against Methos’ cheek as his voice failed. “I know what it is to be cast out. Forgive me. Please. We know now. And we do still love you. That will never change. You’ll never be cast out again.”

 

Methos felt the tears that had threatened to spill so many times in the past two days finally hit his cheek. He blinked impatiently. Stupid. Sentimental. Rubbish. Bloody dangerous rubbish, for each and every one of them. And he didn’t care. He wanted this. He wanted kin. He wanted, needed, loved Duncan MacLeod and his clan of idiots, and he—they—were worth any price the universe exacted in return. “I love you,” Methos whispered fiercely. 

 

“Thank God for that.” Duncan let out a shaky little sigh. “Because I haven’t finished apologizing yet.”

 

Methos laughed raggedly. “Pace yourself, Mac, you’ll strain something.”

 

Duncan didn’t take the bait. “I’ve been cruel, too, Methos.” He kissed Methos’ forehead. Methos closed his eyes and went still, relishing the touch. “I’ve taken someone you loved from you.”

 

“Yes,” said Methos quietly.

 

“I would give him back to you if I could. I don’t know why I challenged him. He hadn’t killed. Mike could have walked away; he chose not to.” Methos nodded and leaned forward to rest his head on Duncan’s shoulder again, unable to stand the torment in the man’s voice. Duncan wrapped his arms around him tightly. “I’ve never challenged a man for being a bad influence before. Methos. I think I was jealous of him.”

 

Methos swallowed a groan.

 

“Did I murder him?” Duncan’s voice broke.

 

“No.” Methos managed, with difficulty, to croak out the word. “You challenged him. You followed the rules of the Game.”

 

“Damn the Game,” said Duncan thickly. “God, Methos. I hate the Game. It’s a disease, a cancer. I killed a man. A flawed man, but one with less blood on his hands than mine. I didn’t kill him to defend myself or to protect someone. I killed him because I was jealous. And we’re supposed to believe that because I followed the Rules, I’m guiltless? I’m not guiltless, Methos.”

 

“No,” said Methos unevenly. “You’re not. None of us are. Don’t do this, Mac. You’ll take yourself apart. Nothing can bring him back. The best you can do is forgive yourself and live, and make damn sure that somebody in this world is better off for it.”

 

Duncan caressed Methos’ back gently. “Salvation, Methos?”

 

“The only kind I know.”

 

“That takes a lot of faith.”

 

“I had a good teacher,” whispered Methos. “I have faith in faith.”

 

Duncan was silent for a moment. “So do I,” he murmured. “And in you. Will you tell me you forgive me? Please. I need to hear the words, just once, and then I’ll let it go.”

 

Methos raised his head and looked into Duncan’s tear-stained face. “I forgive you, Duncan. And you?”

 

Duncan looked startled. “Me?”

 

“Do you forgive me?”

 

“For what?”

 

Methos glared in exasperation.

 

Duncan glared back. “Trying to live a decent life? Wanting to be loved?”

 

“Let’s start with being a butcher.” Methos made no effort to ameliorate his harsh tone.

 

Duncan didn’t respond; he studied Methos so carefully, with such a thoughtful expression, that Methos felt his skin begin to crawl and his temper rise.

 

“Don’t fool yourself. I still have that inside me; let anyone come for me or mine and I will kill without compunction. And some part of me will enjoy it. If you’re looking for Death on a horse, Mac, that’s where you’ll find him.”

 

Duncan nodded slowly and laid a hand on Methos’ chest. “But not here,” he whispered. “Yes?”

 

Methos’ anger collapsed like house of cards in a warm breeze; he closed his eyes and fell forward to lean his forehead on Duncan’s shoulder again, the image of Sebastian rising before his mind’s eye so vividly he felt he could touch him. “Yes,” he said brokenly. “Yes, Mac.”

 

Duncan kissed his cheek and held him tightly. “There’s so much I don’t understand about you,” he whispered. “I want to. Help me?”

 

Methos nodded wordlessly, overcome.

 

“Good. But I need you to know that I understand this much. You’re my brother. You’re a good man. And when you needed me, I failed you.”

 

“I failed you, too,” rasped Methos, blinking hard. He had underestimated this man badly. What would have happened if he’d told Duncan the truth from the beginning? Could the whole sorry mess of Cassandra and Kronos have been avoided? He’d never know. “We failed each other. Spectacularly.”

 

“And that isn’t going to happen again.” Duncan sounded as unshakably adamant as Methos had ever heard him.

 

“No,” said Methos softly, astounded that he actually believed it. “It isn’t.” He swallowed hard. “Forgive me, Duncan. I need to hear the words. Just once.”

 

Duncan slipped his hands up Methos’ arms to cradle his face carefully, tilting it upward. “I forgive you, Methos.” He bent down and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

 

Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan’s waist, deepening the kiss, vaguely aware that the painfully soul-deep ache that had tormented him for months was dissipating, just as the mist around them was yielding to the morning’s light and returning warmth. He clung to his friend, lightheaded at the sensations. No one, not even an Immortal, ever fully appreciated the absence of pain.

 

Duncan released Methos’ mouth with obvious reluctance. “You’re missing your sunrise, kinsman,” he whispered tenderly.

 

Methos’ vision blurred as he whispered his reply in Gaelic. “That I am not. _You _are my sunrise.”

 

Duncan drew a sharp breath at that, then drew his arms around Methos’ shoulders, pulled him close and laid his cheek against his. Methos stood very still, eyes closed, savoring the present, the joy of being held, the peace of being loved; pain and fear and Lucius Germanicus seemed nothing more than a childhood nightmare.

 

Then Methos sighed and let the illusion pass. “Mac. Lucius.”

 

“I know.” Duncan’s voice was gentle; his hands traveled soothingly over Methos’ back.

 

“I should have a plan,” said Methos quietly. “I don’t. I’m tired, Mac.”

 

“We’ll think of something. We can do this, Methos. All of us, together.”

 

“I can’t risk that. We should split up and leave Paris. He’ll follow me; that will take the pressure off you and the Order for a while.”

 

“And when he finds you?”

 

“Remember who you’re talking to. He won’t find me until I’m ready for him to.”

 

“And then?”

 

“That’s the part I don’t have worked out yet.”

 

“You _are _tired, aren’t you?” Duncan was actually chuckling, if a little edgily. “Do you really think anyone on this boat is going to let you hare off into the night—”

 

“It’s almost five in the morning.”

 

“—with that maniac at your heels, alone? Hell, I wouldn’t give you decent odds of getting past Joe, let alone the rest of us.”

 

“So I stay here and hide? Wait for Lucius to murder my—” Methos hesitated.

 

“Your kin,” said Duncan gently.

 

Methos forged ahead, more grateful for Duncan’s understanding than he could deal with. “—my kin, one by one?”

 

“It won’t come to that. We’ll find another way, Methos. Give us a chance.”

 

Methos pulled back enough to look at him. “We don’t have time for this,” he said impatiently. “I should have been on the road hours ago.”

 

“That’s impossible,” returned Duncan, with the mildness of the maniacally obstinate. “I gave you my word that I wouldn’t go anywhere without you. Where you go, I go.”

 

Methos regarded the man with narrowed eyes. God! The man was a menace, a plague! Frustrated, Methos let fly a string of soft but heatedly articulated Gaelic obscenities; Duncan had the decency to look impressed. “When,” spat Methos finally, “in all the time you have known me, have I ever endangered myself unnecessarily? What you know about strategy wouldn’t fill a specimen bottle, MacLeod. Listen to someone older and wiser. We cannot allow him any more time to recover. If we do, he will hire himself a bigger, better army, and everyone here will be dead inside twenty-four hours. That is not going to happen.”

 

“I agree. So let’s go below, talk to everyone, and come up with something fast. Unless you’d rather stand here flapping your mouth. By the way, you have very attractive feet.”

 

Glaring, Methos snatched up his coat. Something fluttered out of it to the deck, but before he could pick it up, Duncan had it in his hand. Methos scowled at what looked like a little piece of paper or a card, struggling to remember what he’d been carrying around with him all that time, but he abandoned his efforts at the look on Duncan’s face. “Mac?”

 

Duncan swallowed and handed it over. Methos took it, realizing immediately what it was. “Oh.” He stared down at the photograph of himself and Duncan, feeling as if it were an artifact from another time, another planet. “I…picked this up when I was tidying. Meant to give it back to you,” he lied quickly. He offered it to Duncan, battling a weird reluctance to let it go, but found himself bent over backwards with Duncan’s mouth moving over his, Duncan’s tongue caressing his, before he’d taken another breath. Methos gasped in startled delight and wrapped his arms around Duncan’s neck, closing his eyes.

 

A discreet cough caught Methos’ attention, but Duncan seemed oblivious. Someone cleared their throat, louder this time, and Methos sighed into the kiss and tapped Duncan’s shoulder. Duncan broke away, then dropped another impertinent kiss on Methos’ nose. “She’s right,” he breathed tenderly. “You’re an old fraud.”

 

“My lord.” Raphael’s voice was firm but unruffled; Methos ruefully considered the fact that he’d seen his master indulge in far more lunatic behavior than this.

 

Duncan straightened hastily and swung Methos into an upright position, his face a deep red. Well, you could take the boy out of Glenfinnan. Occasionally. “Yes?”

 

“We’ll be docking in a moment to refuel. It would be best if you went below.” Raphael was suitably sober, but Methos could see laughter in the man’s eyes. He kept his own face straight with an effort.

 

“He’s right,” said Duncan, laying a hand on Methos’ back. He plucked the photo from Methos’ hand and slid it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Let’s go.”

 

“Any other mortal dangers in the vicinity?” asked Methos drily, eyeing the fueling station with a dubious eye. The attendant lounged in the shade well away from the pumps; one lone figure sat forlornly at the dock’s edge. “Loose floorboards? Mice? Mold?” He pulled the blanket Duncan had given him around him, shivering in the cold wind.

 

“Move.” Duncan gave him a gentle push in the direction of the direction of the door to the hold as the engines shut down for the approach to the dock. The silence was slightly unnerving after the reassuring hum of the engines.

 

Methos sighed and made his way down the length of the barge, nodding at the greetings of the Immortals who knew him; he hadn’t seen most of them in centuries. He was nearly to the door before he realized that Duncan wasn’t behind him. Turning, he saw that Raphael had blocked Duncan’s path a few feet behind him, and was speaking far too softly for Methos to hear. Damn. Methos hurried back in time to catch Duncan’s answer.

 

“You won’t have to. If anything happens to him, I’ll give it to you.”

 

“Trouble, Raph?” asked Methos sharply.

 

“No, my lord. None at all.” Raphael stood aside, watching with an impassive expression as Duncan passed.

 

“Let’s go,” said Duncan casually, turning Methos toward the hold again. “Maybe we can find some of Amanda’s chicken soup lying around here somewhere.”

 

“You’ll give him what?” demanded Methos in an undertone.

 

“It’s impolite to eavesdrop. How long have you known Raphael?”

 

“Thirty centuries or so, but I haven’t seen him in a long time. Why? What did he say?”

 

“He’s very devoted to you.”

 

Methos groaned inwardly. Well, it had been bound to happen. The Nannies were preparing to eat their young. “Look, MacLeod—”

 

“Hey! Hey! You got a Joe Dawson over there?”

 

Methos turned in astonishment toward the bow just as the barge came alongside the fueling station, and caught sight of the young man who had been sitting at the edge of the dock jumping to his feet. “What the hell?” he muttered. Every member of the Order on deck drew their weapons in eerie unison.

 

“Go below,” said Duncan quietly. “This can’t be good.”

 

“Joe Dawson! I’m looking for Joe Dawson! Is he there?”

 

“Who is asking?” barked Jochen, emerging from the pilot house with a semi-automatic pistol in one hand.

 

“My lord,” hissed Raphael, hurrying to intercept Methos as he tried to move forward. “Go below at once.”

 

“I’ve got a package for him! Come on, man, I’ve been waiting here since 3 a.m. Is he there or not?” Clearly annoyed, the young man swung himself aboard, only to find himself surrounded by a dozen gun barrels. Gasping, he backed up against the side, almost toppling over. Duncan took off across the deck in his direction, and Methos started after him, only to be blocked by Raphael again.

 

“Who are you and who sent you?” Tasha demanded in a lethal tone.

 

“Whoa, whoa!” Duncan planted himself firmly between the weapons and the messenger, holding his hands out with an amazed expression. “He’s just a kid.”

 

“Yeah,” squeaked the messenger, hunkering down in an undignified position on the deck. “What he said.”

 

“Who sent you?” Jochen joined the group surrounding the stranger.

 

“My boss! Mercury Courier Service, okay? I’ve got a package for Joe Dawson. I’m supposed to wait here until the boat he’s on shows up. If I’ve got the wrong boat, just let me off!”

 

“Put the guns away,” ordered Methos in exasperation, and was marginally surprised when most of the Order complied. Jochen looked over his shoulder and regarded him defiantly for a split second, then obeyed; the younger Immortals followed his lead. Methos turned his gaze to Raphael, who sighed and stepped aside, allowing him to pass. “You’ve got the right boat. Where’s the package?”

 

The boy hastily pulled his backpack off his shoulder and pulled out an approximately twelve-inch square box wrapped in brown paper and twine. “You Dawson?”

 

“Yeah, that’s me.” Methos spoke in a mild tone as he made his way through the circle of glowering Immortals. “Don’t mind them, they’ve had a rough night.” Squatting, he took the offered package from the boy’s shaking hands. He was surprised to catch a glimpse of the pure, open affection on Duncan’s face and felt his own go strangely hot. What the hell possessed the man now?

 

“Whatever you say, man. You gotta sign.” The boy shoved the book into Methos’ hands, and Methos forged Joe’s signature, admiring his handiwork. He’d always been a good forger. He grinned to himself, imagining MacLeod’s reaction to the nefarious, if less bloody, episodes of his past. A whole new world of MacLeod-baiting had opened up; he felt giddy at the possibilities.

 

“There you go. Mac, give him a tip, will you? I don’t have any pockets.” He picked up the package, which felt strangely heavy for its size, and moved away.

 

“Gee, thanks,” Duncan muttered, turning toward the rapidly retreating messenger; Methos restrained another grin with difficulty. “Here you go.”

 

“Drop in anytime,” called Methos as the boy scrambled over the side and dashed down the dock toward the safety of dry land.

 

“Forgive my impudence, my lord,” said Raphael with obviously thinning patience, “but you are mad.”

 

“You’re forgiven, Raph.” Methos moved to an open spot and sat cross-legged on the deck. “Does anybody have a knife?”

 

Jochen swore loudly in ancient Teutonic and flung a knife into the deck beside Methos; it struck the deck and sank into it, its handle quivering. “You are insane, Methos of Ur! You must know whom that package is from. You have just confirmed our location.”

 

“We’ll be long gone by the time that information reaches him. Provided, of course,” Methos lifted his eyes to Jochen’s and held his gaze, “that you get on with refueling this glorified sardine can and not waste any more time waving your guns about. Understood?”

 

“You do not command me,” hissed Jochen.

 

“Fine,” returned Methos coolly. “Tasha, will you please see to the refueling, and get us under way as soon as possible?”

 

“Immediately, Methos,” replied Tasha, her tone laced with satisfaction. She turned and started shouting to the attendant for service. Jochen glowered and swung away toward the stern.

 

“Somebody got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” murmured Methos, pulling the knife from the deck.

 

“Methos. Let me do that.” Duncan squatted beside him as the rest of the Order gathered around him. “We have no idea—”

 

“I think we do. Relax, Mac. Lucius doesn’t do incendiary devices. Not his style.” Methos cut the twine, and the brown paper unfolded neatly, like a blossoming flower, to reveal a metal box.

 

“Be careful, Methos.” Methos glanced up, startled to see Joanna and Amanda standing behind Raphael, their expressions grim. “We can’t make any assumptions about his behavior at this point. He is desperate.”

 

Methos nodded and lifted the lid carefully, then flipped it back, aghast.

 

“Christ Jesus,” hissed Duncan.

 

“Well,” said Amanda unevenly. “That’s a damned mess.”

 

Jack Shapiro’s empty eye sockets gaped obscenely at them, his twisted mouth wide open in a silent scream; the cloth beneath his severed neck was soaked in blood.

 

Methos took a deep breath and looked up at Duncan, who stared down at the desecrated flesh in frank horror. It never ceased to amaze Methos that Duncan, a warrior and successful Immortal combatant for centuries, still had it in him to be horrified at such an atrocity. The murmur that swept through the group of Immortals around them was equally divided between repugnance and satisfaction; Methos felt the same ambivalence within himself. If anyone had deserved this—and granted that in all likelihood no one did—then it had been Jack Shapiro. Methos regarded the head through narrowed eyes, doing his level best to quell his satisfaction. At least the bastard had paid for putting his damned hands on Joe and Duncan, to say nothing of the slaughter of the Order. Wherever Johann Zwirner and Étienne Dupré might be, they were probably resting a little easier.

 

“The beast has fed.” Joanna’s voice was quiet.

 

“His presentation isn’t up to its usual standard,” muttered Methos, peering into the box.

 

“You’re looking for something,” said Duncan in a strained voice.

 

“He’s on the run. He doesn’t have access to his usual resources at the moment. He went to a lot of trouble to send us this little gift.”

 

“So? He’s a sadist, Methos. He’ll go to the trouble because he knows the reaction this will produce.”

 

“Really? I think he knows better. Do you see anybody here shedding tears for Jack Shapiro? I nearly killed him myself two nights ago.” Methos waited, gauging Duncan’s reaction, but Duncan only nodded thoughtfully.

 

“You don’t think this is a threat?”

 

“He wouldn’t bother. Not with us. We know exactly what he wants with us. There has to be something else.” Grimacing, Methos lifted the head out of the box and set it on the deck, then pulled the cloth from the box.

 

“My lord,” said Raphael sharply. “The cloth. Look at the cloth.”

 

Methos stared up at him. “What about it?” It looked like ordinary white linen to him.

 

Duncan picked up an embroidered edge that somehow had remained free of the gore. “Oh, no,” he murmured.

 

Peering at the edge closely, Methos recognized the symbols. “An altar cloth,” he said wonderingly. “What—”

 

“Methos, look at the pattern,” whispered Joanna.

 

Methos regarded the embroidery blankly, at a loss.

 

“It’s the altar cloth from St. Julien’s,” said Duncan very quietly.

 

St. Julien’s. Darius’church.

 

“Not a threat,” murmured Methos in sudden comprehension. “An invitation.”

 

“A trap,” snapped Raphael.

 

Methos sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Of course it is. But do you think he’s been able to recruit new soldiers this quickly?”

 

“Unlikely,” said Joanna crisply. “But not impossible.”

 

“If he hasn’t, he’s setting himself up to be captured,” said Duncan, frowning. “We outnumber him significantly. Why would he send this to us?”

 

“To be precise, he sent it to Joe.” Methos’ stomach plummeted the moment the words left his mouth. Dropping the cloth, he scanned the faces around him wildly. “Where’s Joe?”

 

“He was right behind me when we came on deck.” Joanna glanced behind her, then turned to Methos with wide eyes. “You don’t think—”

 

“Check the damn hold!” snapped Methos to Duncan, who took off like a bat out of hell. Methos shoved his way through the crowd of Immortals and vaulted over the side of the barge onto the dock, vaguely aware that Raphael was at his heels. “You there!” he shouted to the attendant in French. The large man opened his eyes and regarded him with the supercilious annoyance of a Parisian rudely awakened from a well-deserved morning nap. “Did you see a grey-haired man pass by here?”

 

“Perhaps,” returned the attendant in an indolent tone, leaning back in his chair.

 

Methos strode up to him, keeping a lid on his panic and temper with difficulty. “Perhaps?”

 

“Perhaps I saw him. Perhaps he gave me twenty francs not to see him. Then again, perhaps I didn’t see him at all.”

 

Methos let loose something akin to a snarl, seized the man by the front of his shirt, and hauled him out of his chair and nose to nose. “Perhaps you will tell me where he went,” he hissed in the man’s face. “before I break your damned neck.”

 

“He’s not in the hold,” came Duncan’s shout from behind him. Then a weary, “Oh, damn.”

 

“Let me go! Are you mad, monsieur?” The attendant struggled ineffectually, clearly frightened.

 

“My lord,” murmured Raphael in Persian. “Do not injure him.”

 

“Methos, let him go!” Duncan’s voice was closer, but Methos’ only response was to press his thumbs into the man’s Adam’s apple.

 

“Tell me,” persisted Methos coldly, riding the crest of a blood rage. “You have two seconds.”

 

“He asked me to call him a taxi! It came only two minutes ago, and he and his friend got into it. They’ve gone, I don’t know where!” gasped the man, clutching at Methos’ hands.

 

Methos flung the man back into his chair and bolted down the dock toward the shore. By the time he reached the street, no vehicle was to be seen. Methos stared first in one direction, then the other, unwilling to accept the fact that Joe had actually done this mad thing, that Lucius had known he’d do it, that Methos had been too stupid to anticipate it, that there was no way to stop Joe. No way at all. He started at the touch of gentle hands on his shoulders.

 

“Joanna’s called one of her people with a car. He’s five minutes away. We’ll stop them, Methos.” Duncan’s voice was grim but steady.

 

“Them?” whispered Methos, leaning back against his friend.

 

“Richie’s gone too.”

 

“They don’t stand a chance,” said Methos dully. “He’ll kill them both before we can get there.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

Joe leaned back in his seat, ignoring Richie’s soft snoring. Christ, that kid could sleep if the whole damn world were about to end—and who knows, it just might be. The empty streets of early morning Paris flew past the cab window in a blur, the driver obviously determined to make the fifty francs he’d been promised for a ten-minute ride to St. Julien’s.

 

Damn Lucius Germanicus to hell. Joe had had it all planned from the moment he’d heard Richie’s little ghost story. It would have worked, too. _Need to check in with Urquhart, guys, see you later. Oh, you’re worried about old Joe? No problem, I’ll take the kid with me. _He would have gone to St. Julien’s and taken care of business without anybody being the wiser—or died trying. But no. No, Lucius just had to get obvious about it. Like two and two didn’t make four. Like anything short of thermonuclear warfare would keep Lucius from St. Julien’s if he thought Darius were there—dead or alive. Christ on a crooked crutch. That little birthday present had been completely unnecessary as far as Joe was concerned. Overkill in every sense of the word, God have mercy on that poor schmuck Shapiro’s soul.

 

So thanks to Lucius, they were only maybe ten minutes ahead of MacLeod and company, if that. Well, ten minutes should be long enough to kill those two sons of bitches, if they were lucky. And if Lucius thought for one damn minute that Joe would allow himself to be taken alive, or that holy ground would protect him after what he’d done to Methos, then he didn’t know Joe Dawson. This was not going down the way Lucius had it planned. Joe patted the pistol he’d stolen from Jochen as it rested comfortingly in his breast pocket, then fingered the hilt of Duncan’s katana. No. Definitely not the way Lucius had it planned.

 

Joe jolted out of his reflections as the cab came to a halt in front of St. Julien’s. He shoved all the cash he had in his pockets into the driver’s hand as Richie started awake and sprang out of the cab with all the goddamned elasticity of youth. Joe grit his teeth and dragged himself out, gratefully accepting Richie’s offered shoulder as the cab sped away.

 

Richie helped him into the small courtyard, then stopped and looked at him for a moment with an apprehensive expression. “Someone’s here. You sure about this, Joe? You really look like hell, man.”

 

“You’re no prize yourself, Junior,” snapped Joe, moving forward again. “Now you listen to me. This is my show. You are here on lookout duty only, got it?”

 

“Joe—”

 

“You’re an Immortal, and this is holy ground. We’ve crossed every other line we’ve got, but we’re not crossing that one.”

 

“I’ll do what it takes, Joe,” said Richie quietly.

 

“Don’t be a damn idiot!” Joe drew a shaky breath and lowered his voice. “We have no idea what that would do to you. I’ll be damned if I’m getting you killed, or worse. Do you read me?”

 

“So I’m supposed to stand there like a good boy and watch them kill you? Fuck that.”

 

“Oh, God damn it to hell,” said Joe wearily. “I knew it. I knew I should have come alone.”

 

“Yeah, like that was going to happen.” Richie snorted derisively. “Get real, Joe. Even with me to watch your back, you’re probably going to get whacked inside the first two minutes.”

 

Joe cast him a dry look. “Thanks, Sunshine. I’ll point out that Nathan isn’t likely to be scrupulous about taking you out on holy ground, either.”

 

“To say nothing of Lucius.”

 

Joe was silent for a moment, thinking. “Concentrate on Nathan. We’ll have to deal with him first. If you have to run him through, do it. But don’t take his head. Not here.”

 

“Joe, we have got to take these guys out.” Richie looked as grim as Joe had ever seen him. “It’s not just Adam and Mac and you they’re targeting—it’s everything. The whole balancing act. They’ve come this close to starting up a war between Watchers and Immortals, man, this close. Do you know how many people would die—”

 

“You’re preaching to the choir.” Joe laid his hand on the latch of the church door. “You’ve got to wonder if there’s something wrong with a balancing act so out of whack that one nutcase can bring it all crashing down.”

 

“Maybe. Maybe there’s a lot wrong with it. But we can’t fix it until we deal with the nutcase. Whatever it takes, man, we’ve got to take them out.”

 

“I hear you. But leave the taking out to me.” Joe handed Richie the katana and pulled out the gun. The altar boy in him cringed at the thought of spilling blood—anyone’s blood—here, in this place. If Darius _was _here, it was twice a desecration—a sentiment that Lucius was no doubt counting on. Joe set his shoulders. “Watch yourself, Rich. They’re waiting for us.” Richie nodded, raising Duncan’s blade, and Joe yanked the door open and stepped inside.

 

***

 

 

“How much longer?” asked Duncan quietly, unable to tear his gaze from the slender man standing in the road, barefoot and coatless, staring in the direction of the recently departed cab.

 

“Jonathan’s almost here.” Joanna slipped her cell phone into her pocket. “The rest of the Order will meet us at St. Julien’s.”

 

Duncan glanced behind him; the barge was almost out of sight, bound for the Petit Pont, the nearest mooring possible to St. Julien’s. Only Joanna and Raphael had remained ashore.

 

“Is he all right?” whispered Amanda, jerking her head in Methos’ direction.

 

“No,” said Raphael quietly.

 

“No.” Duncan cursed himself thoroughly. Why hadn’t he put this together five minutes sooner? Joe must have known where Lucius was and what he was going to do about it from the moment he’d heard Richie’s story. Damn it, Duncan knew this man better than anyone else here. In the past twenty-four hours alone he’d seen Joe jump on a gun and goad the most dangerous Immortal on the planet to protect his friends; how the hell could he have failed to anticipate this?

 

“This isn’t your fault, Duncan.” Duncan turned to find Joanna watching him closely. “Joe knows that neither you nor Methos would violate holy ground. And he knows that neither of you will be safe unless Lucius is dead. There was only one alternative.”

 

“And you agree with him?” Duncan was startled by the harshness in his tone. “What about your word to Darius?”

 

Joanna flinched visibly. “I can’t allow this to happen again.” Her voice broke; she turned to lock her gaze on Methos. “I can’t allow him to be harmed again. I can’t endanger thousands, risk open warfare between Watchers and Immortals, all to preserve the supposed sanctity of my given word.” Her voice was bitter now. “All I can do is what I must to protect us all, and pray that Darius will forgive me.”

 

Duncan groaned inwardly at the anguish in her face. “I’m sorry.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m just…. It’s Joe and Richie. You must know they don’t stand a chance, alone against Lucius and Nathan.”

 

“Perhaps they aren’t alone,” whispered Joanna. “Have faith.”

 

Duncan found a weak smile somewhere; but felt it wiped away as Methos tossed away the blanket he’d been holding around him and started walking purposefully toward the access road leading to the street on the bank proper. “Methos!” Duncan sprinted to his side. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

 

“I am going to find us a car,” answered Methos in a voice like steel.

 

“Where? Where the hell are you—”

 

“On the goddamn street, MacLeod. I am going to _steal_ a car, all right? Stay here unless you want your morals affronted.”

 

“Methos. You…you don’t even have any shoes on.”

 

“What the hell do I need shoes for? Is this some sort of arcane requirement for admission to the Parisian Guild of Car Thieves? Tell them my check’s in the mail.”

 

“The car will be here any minute.”

 

“We don’t have a minute.” Methos started walking even faster. “More to the point, Joe and Richie don’t have a minute. If they’ve reached the church—”

 

“They haven’t, Methos,” gasped Amanda, catching up with them. “They only left—”

 

“Shut up,” said Methos coldly. “Just shut up and go away, Amanda. I’ll handle this job on my own.”

 

“Methos,” snapped Duncan in amazement. “She’s only—”

 

“Methos,” said Amanda uncertainly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

 

Methos turned to look at her; Duncan winced at the cold fury in his expression. “All right?” He paused for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I am as all right as anyone can be who’s been kidnapped, sliced open, had his eyes stabbed out and is now standing around like a damn fool while two friends die in a useless attempt to protect him from the results of his own idiocy.”

 

“Methos, I’m—”

 

“Of course, none of these pleasant diversions could have taken place without your spectacular contributions. Nice job, Amanda.”

 

Shocked, Duncan came to a halt, staring, only subliminally aware of Amanda’s recoil, her faltering voice.

 

“I’m sorry,” Amanda said in a strangled voice. “You’re right. You’re right, it’s my fault. I just…. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” She turned away, tripping over the cobble stones, obviously unable to see as Methos lunged at her so suddenly that Duncan gasped out an involuntary cry of warning, certain that he was about to strike her. The cry died in his throat as Methos pulled her into his arms, cradling her against him. The helpless, repentant exhaustion in Methos’ face nearly undid him.

 

“No,” Methos breathed in a desperate tone. “No. I didn’t mean that. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine.”

 

Amanda buried her face against his chest, sobbing quietly.

 

“Oh, damn,” said Methos wearily, leaning his head against hers. “Amanda. Don’t cry. You know I can’t take that.”

 

“Shit. Shit. Methos, what they did to you—”

 

“Had nothing to do with you.” Methos lowered his head to speak fiercely in her ear. “Do you hear me? They would have found us anyway. It would have happened no matter what you did or didn’t do. Don’t go all MacLeod on me now, you know I have limited sackcloth tolerance.”

 

Duncan snorted and blinked hard, unable to speak.

 

Amanda struck Methos’ shoulder lightly with one fist, her face still hidden against his chest. “I led them right to you. I didn’t even stop to think—”

 

“You didn’t stop to think because I didn’t tell you what you needed to know.” Amanda raised her head with an amazed expression; Methos cupped her face in his hands and looked down at her with a crooked little smile that twisted Duncan’s insides to look at. “Old habits die hard. My fault, Amanda. Mine. And I’m sorry.”

 

“It is _not _your fault,” snapped Amanda, wiping her face. “And you’re right. This is stupid, standing here like this. _I _will get you a car. I’ll be back in three minutes.”

 

“Two. And make sure the tank’s full.”

 

“I do not hear this,” said Duncan grimly.

 

Amanda ignored him. “Fine. But if you aren’t here when I get back, I’m going to cut your damn head off.” She strode off determinedly, muttering audibly about men, cars and which should be sold for parts.

 

Methos watched her go with a bemused expression, then turned to Duncan, not quite making eye contact. “You know,” he said finally, studying his bare feet. “I really am a right bastard, MacLeod.”

 

Duncan couldn’t resist any longer; he yanked him close and held him tightly. Methos’ head dropped to his shoulder.

 

“And I’ve got no shoes on.” His voice shook.

 

“We’ll stop them.”

 

“I can’t lose any of you.”

 

“They’ll be all right. We’re going to stop them.”

 

“Damn Dawson,” said Methos brokenly. “Damn him. What the hell is he thinking, Mac?”

 

“He’s thinking you’re worth it,” whispered Duncan. “And he’s right. Just—”

 

The sound of screeching tires brought Duncan’s head up in time to see a black sedan take the corner from the street onto the access road at a dangerously high rate of speed and come roaring toward them. Duncan sprang out of the way, dragging Methos with him, then stood holding him, staring in amazement as the car came to a rocking halt a few feet away. Before Duncan could react, Joanna and Raphael were standing in front of them, guns drawn.

 

“I take it this isn’t Jonathan,” said Methos drily, making no effort to extricate himself from Duncan’s embrace.

 

“Take him back to the dock, MacLeod,” snapped Raphael. “Move!”

 

The driver side door burst open, and a tall, fair-haired man leapt out, holding a sword. “My life is going to hell in a bloody hand basket, Pierson, and you are responsible!”

 

“Ah,” said Methos lightly, eyes wide. “One can but try.”

 

“Friend of yours?” asked Duncan warily, somehow doubting it. The man’s manner screamed “Watcher!” to everyone who knew such a thing existed.

 

“Winston Urquhart, Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod, Winston Urquhart. Mr. Urquhart was, at last report, Regional Coordinator of the Watchers in Western Europe, although events may have moved along since my last briefing.” Methos’ manner radiated a casual contempt, but Duncan could feel the tension in his friend’s body.

 

Urquhart glared balefully. “I always knew there was something peculiar about you.”

 

Methos snorted. “You have no idea.”

 

“Get back in the car and leave now, Urquhart,” said Joanna grimly.

 

“Gladly. And you are all coming with me. My field people just called to tell me that Ryan and Dawson have gone into St. Julien’s armed to the teeth, and we all know why.”

 

“Then tell them to get them the hell out of there!” snapped Duncan. “And don’t quote me the Watcher’s Oath. God only knows what might happen if an Immortal takes a head on holy ground.”

 

“Do I look like a complete moron to you?”

 

“Actually—”

 

“They tried to get in. The doors won’t open.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about? There are no locks on—”

 

“Faith, Duncan,” said Joanna softly, casting him a quick look over her shoulder.

 

Duncan took a sharp breath in sudden, if muted, understanding.

 

“I have reason to believe that whoever blocked those doors will open them for you. And you are going to stop this insanity before it blows up in our faces.” Urquhart tossed the sword past Raphael to land with a rattle at Methos’ feet. “I believe this belongs to you, Pierson.”

 

Duncan glanced at the sword lying on the cobblestones in confusion. It was of considerable vintage; late Roman, fourth or fifth century AD. It was completely unremarkable—except for the reactions it produced in Joanna and Methos. Joanna muttered what sounded to Duncan’s ears like a curse in Latin; Methos’ entire body stiffened.

 

“Adam doesn’t own a sword,” snapped Duncan, releasing Methos enough to edge in front of him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Pick it up and get in the car, Methos,” growled Urquhart. “We’re going to St. Julien’s. Unless you want Joe Dawson delivered on silver platters.”

 

***

 

 

Joe had no sooner stepped over the threshold of St. Julien’s than Richie shoved him hard, sending him reeling onto the floor as the clash of steel rang against the stone walls of the church. His gun skittered several feet across the stone floor, and Joe twisted around, gasping, to see Richie and Nathan facing one another, swords crossed. The church door slammed shut as if the altar were blowing a gale force wind, but neither combatant so much as blinked at the sound.

 

“And you’d be Nathan,” snapped Richie.

 

“Nathan, son of David.” The man’s voice was even, cold. The tides of misfortune seemed to have left him untouched; he was as menacing an opponent here as he had been in the alley behind Joe’s apartment building and the little room in the wine cellar—he possessed the same cool, collected air; not one hair was out of place.

 

“Richard, son of Duncan,” returned Richie in a grim tone, “And you are dead meat, pal.”

 

“Holy ground,” rasped Joe, struggling to rise. God, this wasn’t going to happen. “Damn it, Nathan, holy ground!”

 

Nathan’s lip curled as he swung his blade back over his shoulder. “The Rules of the Game? A puerile exercise in the absurd. They are meaningless. The Game is meaningless. My master acknowledges no such trivialities.”

 

“That works for me,” said Richie grimly, bringing back his sword for a blow.

 

“It’s not a triviality!” Joe cut in, dragging himself slowly up the aisle toward his gun. “We have no idea what would happen if an Immortal violated sanctuary. The only record—”

 

“My master has read your records concerning the destruction of Pompeii. So be it. Let this accursed place be destroyed! Let the city sink into the Seine. It deserves no less.”

 

“Is that your master’s opinion or yours? Wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that the men who butchered your people were Franks, does it?”

 

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “My master commands here.”

 

“Then where is he?”

 

“Lucius Germanicus does not appear at your bidding, Joseph Dawson.”

 

“He couldn’t appear at my bidding if he wanted to. Could he?”

 

Richie shot Joe a sharp, inquiring look that Joe couldn’t afford to return. Joe groped behind him for the gun, his gaze locked with Nathan’s.

 

“Your words have no meaning,” said Nathan hollowly, turning toward Joe.

 

“Oh, they have meaning, all right. I have ears, pal. I was listening when you and Lucius left the wine cellar last night. But I only heard one set of footsteps. One.”

 

“What the hell?” whispered Richie. “Joe?”

 

Nathan uttered something like a hiss and lunged at Joe, sword raised. Richie leapt after Nathan, and with a maneuver only the very young and very determined could have pulled off, blocked the downward arc of Nathan’s sword. Joe grabbed the gun, brought it around in a two-handed grip, and tried desperately to get a clear shot. The two were so close, and moving so quickly, that it was impossible. The point became moot when Nathan, with apparent and frightening ease, swung one leg out as he turned, kicking the gun out of Joe’s hand to rattle to the floor, hidden among the neat rows of chairs set out for the faithful.

 

“Go, Joe, go!” gasped Richie. “Find him! I can hold this asshole.” Nathan uttered an inarticulate growl and lunged again, but Richie parried the blow and stepped aside. He drew his own blade and tossed it onto the floor beside Joe.

 

Swearing under his breath, Joe snatched up the sword, grabbed the chair beside him and hauled himself to his feet. If he could find Lucius and take him out, there would be one less reason for Nathan to keep fighting. At the very least, Joe was certain his search would serve as a distraction. Nathan’s reaction, however, was anything but distracted. With one smooth move, Nathan pivoted and coolly drove his sword through Richie’s body.

 

Richie screamed in pain and, judging from his expression, disbelief, and slowly slipped off the end of his opponent’s sword to lie motionless on the stone floor. Smiling triumphantly, Nathan lifted his sword over his opponent’s head.

 

Before Joe realized he’d moved, he found himself diving forward onto his belly, his head and shoulders sliding over Richie’s, shielding Richie’s upper body; he wrapped his arms around the bloody young man determinedly. “No,” he gasped. “I brought him here. You want to chop someone, you sick bastard, chop me.” He pinched his eyes shut, certain Nathan would take him up on his offer, but he was surprised once again.

 

“Bring him here.” The voice, soft as it was, resonated through the ancient room. That voice had been made for stone walls and soaring arches, Joe realized dimly. Lucius had never been meant to see Joe’s world.

 

Nathan seized Joe by the arms and tore him away from Richie, yanking him roughly to his feet. “And Ryan?”

 

“Leave him. Our other guests have not yet arrived, and I have no intention of bestowing that particular honor upon him once they do.”

 

Joe set his teeth as Nathan forced him forward, toward the altar. Bait. He was bait. What the hell had he been thinking? “They won’t come,” he snapped, with as much defiance as exhaustion could muster.

 

“They will come.” The voice was quiet, confident. “They love you.”

 

“They won’t. They won’t fight on holy ground. They’re honorable men.”

 

“They will come despite honor. It matters not whether or not they fight. They will die just the same.”

 

Joe peered ahead in the dim light; the voice seemed to be coming from behind the altar. “Still hiding, Lucius? What are you afraid of?”

“I do not hide. But there is one here who does. Where is he, Dawson?”

 

“Oh, so that’s who you’re hiding from.” Joe allowed himself a contemptuous chuckle.

 

Nathan gave Joe a rough shove up the steps to the side of the altar. “My master hides from no one.”

 

“I sense his presence,” said Lucius softly. “But Nathan has searched this place in vain. Where is he?”

 

“Maybe he’ll find _you_,” returned Joe grimly. “And maybe you’ll wish he hadn’t.”

 

“I do not fear him. He will die as well. Bring him closer, Nathan.”

 

Nathan shoved Joe behind the altar, and Joe nodded grimly at what he saw there.

 

“You are not surprised.” Lucius stared up at him with hard eyes.

 

“No,” said Joe quietly. “I’m not surprised.”

 

“And you do not pity me.”

 

“Pity you?” Joe barked a harsh laugh. “You son of a bitch. You’ve murdered thousands of innocent people and tortured my closest friend, why the hell would I pity you?”

 

Lucius actually smiled. “That pleases me.” He nodded to Nathan.

 

“Yeah? You need to get out more.” Joe gasped in surprise as Nathan wrapped his arms around him, holding him against his body. “What the hell?”

 

“Have you ever witnessed a quickening, Joseph Dawson?”

 

Nathan forced his sword into Joe’s unwilling hands, then folded his own around them tightly.

 

“A few,” said Joe unevenly.

 

“Have you ever seen the remains of a mortal caught in a quickening?”

 

Nathan raised Joe’s hand, and the sword with it. Joe closed his eyes in sickened comprehension.

 

“I have seen such a thing. In Constantinople. One of the mortal warriors led by Darius’ whore strayed too close to his Immortal companion as he was beheaded. It was an agonizingly slow death.”

 

“They won’t come,” breathed Joe, praying to God everything he knew about Methos and Duncan MacLeod was wrong.

 

“He was burned alive, burned slowly, burned to the bone.”

 

“And even if they do they won’t let anything stop them from dragging your sorry ass off holy ground and hacking your damn head off.”

 

“Darius, his church, thousands of Watchers, the Order, and this entire accursed city will be destroyed. And the last thing Marcus Gaius will ever see is your blackened corpse.”

 

***

 

 

“I don’t suppose you’re the first Immortal to infiltrate us, but you’re the first we’ve ever discovered. I trust you’re aware of the policy regarding such an infiltration.”

 

Methos looked up from the manuscript in his lap, mildly amused to see Urquhart squirm away from the point of Raphael’s sword as it was thrust over the back of the car’s front seat and to within an inch of Urquhart’s throat.

 

“I believe the policy is to behead the offending Immortal,” snarled Raphael. “I do not advise such an attempt.”

 

“Nor I,” said Joanna, glancing into the rear view mirror with a deadly expression. She took a turn with her customary caution; a hub cab went flying onto the sidewalk as they passed.

 

“The policy is being revised,” squeaked Urquhart, leaning as far back in his seat as he could. “Given the current circumstances.”

 

“Good idea,” said Duncan in a lethal tone. He carefully picked up the drawing of Methos that lay in Methos’ lap as Raphael withdrew his blade. “My God. He certainly captured you.”

 

“In more ways than one,” murmured Methos dazedly, struggling to come to terms with the events of the past few minutes. The long charade was over; he’d been outed to the Watchers. Outed by the last person in the world he’d ever expected to do so. “There’s more of this? I couldn’t find Sebastian’s journal after he died. I thought it had been destroyed.” Methos ran one finger over the edge of the perfectly preserved papyrus reverently. There was no doubt of its authenticity, or its author. He knew Sebastian’s hand all too well; even the Sumerian glyphs were unmistakable.

 

“Much more. These are only the most recent of the documents, those that deal with his life in Rome and his friendship with Marcus Gaius, among other things. Do I surmise correctly that this Sebastian is the Immortal Darius killed at the gates of Paris?”

 

“Yes,” said Methos quietly. He paused for a moment, allowing himself to feel the comfort of Duncan’s hand resting on his arm. “Where did you find these?”

 

“Sitting on my desk at home.”

 

Methos stared at Urquhart as well as he could as he was thrown against Duncan, the sound of squealing tires drowning out all conversation for several seconds. “Your desk. Are you telling me they appeared out of nowhere?”

 

“Exactly so. They were accompanied by this.” Urquhart pulled a note from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Methos.

 

Lucius is inside St. Julien’s. If you wish the Watchers to survive, take Methos and MacLeod there at once.

 

“Suitably cryptic,” observed Methos. “I don’t suppose we have any clue who might have sent this?”

 

“Darius kept Sebastian’s chronicle concealed somewhere within the rectory of St. Julien’s.” Joanna caught Methos’ eye in the rear view mirror. Methos returned the look sharply.

 

Duncan shot her a slightly scandalized glance. “Are you suggesting that the pastor of St. Julien’s moonlights as a cat burglar?”

 

“Heaven forbid,” returned Joanna, with entirely too much innocence.

 

“You didn’t see anyone in Headquarters that didn’t belong there?” persisted Methos, fixing Urquhart with a piercing look.

 

“I’m afraid I was a tad distracted at the time,” snapped Urquhart. “Jack Shapiro had been delivered a few minutes earlier. Most of him, at any rate.”

 

“We have the only missing piece,” said Joanna coolly. “Unless Lucius has taken to gnawing on the gristly bits again.”

 

“Lovely,” muttered Urquhart.

 

“Do you usually take the advice of the anonymous and the uninvited?” asked Raphael suspiciously.

 

“I do when they hand me Methos on a silver platter.”

 

“Not just yet, thank you,” returned Methos crisply, shutting the portfolio and holding it against him with gentle reverence.

 

“Sorry,” said Urquhart hastily, glancing around at the glares being leveled in his direction. He cleared his throat. “Poor choice of words.”

 

“I want your people well away from St. Julien’s, Urquhart.” Methos decided to ignore the priceless treasure nestled against his chest, and everything else that had, in the past forty-eight hours, turned his life upside down. All that mattered now was hauling Joe Dawson and Richie Ryan’s respective asses out of that church before they got themselves killed. “I’m not running a damned gauntlet of gawking Watchers.”

 

“No one knows about you but me,” returned Urquhart. “And what about your people?”

 

Methos looked at him in surprise. “My people?”

 

“There are a dozen armed people in the courtyard already, and they’re not moving. Don’t tell me they’re not yours.”

 

“They’re mine, actually,” put in Joanna archly. “And they’ll stay there until I deem it advisable to order them away. There will be more of them. Deal.”

 

Urquhart stared at the back of her head for a moment, then sighed with a distinctly morose expression. “I had a well-ordered life once.”

 

Methos snorted in unexpected sympathy as Joanna slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a jolting halt in front of St. Julien’s. “I feel your pain.” Glancing out the window, he was taken aback at the sight of two large groups of people eyeing each other suspiciously from different sides of the courtyard outside the church door; two men, presumably Watchers, were alternately pounding on and shoving themselves against the door. “Exactly how many of your field operatives did you call in?”

 

Duncan shoved the car door open and stood beside it as Methos jumped out, clutching his old sword. It did not rest comfortably in his hand.

 

“Exactly how many do you think are necessary to stop an insane Watcher and a rogue Immortal from destroying the city of Paris?” Urquhart’s voice crackled with irritation.

 

“Joe’s not insane,” snapped Methos over his shoulder, heading for the church door with Duncan, Raphael and Joanna on his heels. “He’s a nanny.”

 

“He’s a _what_?” Urquhart scrambled after them.

 

“A nanny. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a nanny growing up, Urquhart.” Methos noted with embarrassment that several of the Immortal, and even mortal, members of the Order were bowing slightly as he passed. Shit. Raphael’s persistence was bad enough; MacLeod was never going to let him forget this. Provided they survived, of course.

 

Methos dismissed the thought immediately. No. Duncan was going to survive. Because Duncan was staying out here. Out here, away from Lucius and Nathan and whatever ugliness lay inside Darius’ sanctuary. Methos didn’t care if those two split him open throat to crotch on Darius’ altar; Duncan was not going anywhere near those two again.

 

Methos wished to every god he’d ever heard of that he could avoid entering this place. He’d hated every stone of it for centuries, hated the man who built it, hated the knowledge that Darius lived on in comfort and safety while Sebastian’s soul was lost forever. The only time he’d ever set foot inside St. Julien’s during the entire span of its existence had been to drag Duncan out of it; Darius’ presence had sung to him so loudly then that it had been all he could do to focus on his purpose.

 

“All right, stand aside,” ordered Urquhart to the two men struggling with the door.

 

“_Aba,_” murmured Joanna. “Just a moment, before you go in.”

 

“It won’t budge,” growled one of the men, giving the door a final kick before retiring.

 

“I don’t have a moment, _bati_,” said Methos quietly, bending to kiss her forehead quickly. “Tell me later.”

 

“It’s about Lucius.” Joanna laid her hands on his chest and looked up at him imploringly. “He isn’t what—”

 

“Methos.”

 

Methos swung away toward the door, which Duncan was already throwing his weight against, to no avail. “Later, Jo.”

 

“This is impossible,” murmured Duncan to Methos, still leaning against the door. “It isn’t locked. As far as I can tell, it isn’t blocked with anything. It just won’t open.”

 

Methos sighed and laid his hand on the ancient wood; to his astonishment, the door swung open soundlessly. A murmur rippled through both the Watchers and the Order, but before Methos could react, Duncan sprang through the open door into the church. “Mac,” Methos gasped, bolting after him. Idiot! Boy scout! What the hell did he think he was doing?

 

Methos blundered into the relative darkness of the church, only to trip over something lying just inside the door. The door slammed shut behind him with a bang that echoed through the nave as he went down on the stone floor on his hands and knees. His stomach turned as he realized that he’d tripped over a body, and he blinked furiously, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light. He heard the pounding of many hands on the door behind him. “Mac? Who is it? Damn it, who—”

 

“It’s Richie. He’ll be fine.” Duncan’s breath was in his ear, his hand on his shoulder.

 

Methos blinked a few more times until he could see what lay under his hands. Richie lay on his side on the floor, obviously dead; but his head was where it ought to be. Methos let out a shaky sigh of relief, then raised his eyes to the altar and froze. He felt Duncan’s hand clench his shoulder as Nathan smiled at them, his arms tightening visibly around Joe’s, his hands tightening around Joe’s, the sword in their clenched hands lifting slightly.

 

Joe’s gaze locked with his. “Adam, get out.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried down the nave like a scream. “Mac, get him _out_.”

 

“Come here, Marcus Gaius. My master would speak with you before we die.” Nathan nodded at Methos in summons.

 

“Leave,” said Methos tonelessly, rising to his feet. So this was Lucius’ last move. He should have known. Simple, yet effective, and deeply sadistic.

 

“Like hell,” whispered Duncan, still clutching Methos’ shoulder. Methos knew without looking, from his voice, his touch, that he understood the situation. And still he engaged the inevitable in mortal combat, charging the looming windmill in his path at full tilt. Methos could easily have either wrung his neck or kissed him full on the mouth at that moment.

 

“Leave now. Take Richie and get the others as far away from here as possible.” Methos yanked free of Duncan’s grasp, stepped over Richie and strode down the aisle.

 

***

 

 

Amanda plowed through the traffic light at sixty miles an hour, ignoring the braying horns behind her, and prayed that the world didn’t end before she found Methos. Five minutes was all it would take to make hamburger of his dangly bits and chop off his undeniably pretty head. He’d done it to her again. Again. As in twice. Twice in one day. Face it, the joke hadn’t been that funny the first time, and it was even more obnoxious the second. They’d taken off without her, leaving her standing beside her stolen Rolls, staring at the empty street and looking like a damn fool, despite explicit instructions to the contrary. And she’d warned Mr. Ten Thousand Years Older Than Sand. Oh, yes, she had warned him; and if he’d thought she’d been joking, then he didn’t know her very damn well. And he did. Know her very damn well, that is. So on his head be it, and she wasn’t being goddamn metaphorical.

 

Obviously Freddie had finally showed up with the Mystery Machine, and they were all on their frantically heroic way to head off Shaggy and Scooby from certain doom at the supposedly haunted church. Which was pretty much a waste of effort, in her opinion. Now Richie might be a little flaky sometimes, but there was no way in hell he was going to chop off another Immortal’s head on holy ground. That was number one in the Immortal Handbook’s List of Things Not to Do, most likely because it would make something very, very bad happen. Amanda remembered the story Duncan had told her about Pompeii. She wasn’t sure she bought the lava and ash scenario, but anything that had the potential to separate an Immortal’s head from his shoulders was something to be devoutly avoided, and Richie most definitely liked his head where it was.

 

Besides, Joe was in charge of that little expedition, and Amanda had a pretty good idea of what he had in mind. Richie would be well off holy ground when Lucius and Nathan got iced and diced, and no harm done. In fact, those two winding up a foot shorter would be cause for one hell of a party, in her opinion. Provided everything went according to Joe’s plan, of course. Although the way their luck had been running lately…. Well, okay. Maybe there was a little bit of a reason to worry. Maybe.

 

Amanda took the last turn in front of St. Julien’s and slammed on her brakes enough to avoid completely totaling the black Mercedes sedan parked in front of her; as it was, she only crushed the rear bumper and mangled the trunk door. Getting out, she strode into the courtyard, drawing her sword, and came to a sudden halt, staring. The courtyard was filled with people, most of whom were glowering at each other while a determined minority— including, to her amazement, Urquhart—were trying to force open the door. She spotted Joanna in a huddle with some of the Order and shoved her way through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks cast her way. “What the hell’s going on?”

 

“Methos and Duncan just went inside,” said Joanna quietly, turning from Raphael and Jochen to speak over her shoulder. “And the doors won’t open.”

 

Amanda glanced incredulously at the men trying to force the door. “You _do _know there’s another door.”

 

“I should,” returned Joanna in a dry tone. “I built it.”

 

“Well, did you try it?”

 

“Some of the Watchers did.” Joanna eyed the Watchers throwing themselves against the door with amusement. “I don’t believe it went very well.”

 

Amanda barely managed to contain her exasperation. “And so you’re just going to stand here and _wait_?”

 

“Not at all. I’m going to take a stroll in the garden. Join me?” Joanna whirled away in the direction of the garden path. “Raph, stay here and keep an eye on things, will you?”

 

“Certainly,” said Raphael blandly, something like an evil gleam in his eye.

 

Amanda sprinted after Joanna, catching up with her as they rounded the curve in the path and entered Darius’ garden. “We had better be headed for that door.”

 

Joanna shot her a grimace. “Surely you didn’t imagine I was going to prune the hedges.”

 

“Can we break it down?”

 

“I hope that won’t be necessary. These doors were built to withstand far greater force than we could bring to bear without a battering ram.”

 

“What the hell is going on? Why won’t they open?”

 

Joanna shrugged marginally. “I should think it would be fairly obvious by now that someone other than ourselves decides who is needed in St. Julien’s.”

 

Amanda glared at her. “It is _not _obvious. Nothing about this mess is obvious except that Lucius is going to chop off Methos’ head if we don’t get in there.” She spotted the rectory door and quickened her pace.

 

Joanna’s expression became very grave. “Lucius can’t do that, Amanda.”

 

“That’s exactly what he’s going to do if we don’t stop him,” Amanda snapped, leaping up the stone steps and grabbing the antique latch of the rectory door.

 

“No. You don’t understand. He’s not—”

 

“Sh.” Amanda tugged on the latch with no success, then laid her ear to the door. She could barely hear the sound of voices, obviously from the nave, but there was no sound emanating from the rectory. Joanna watched her with an amused expression. “Where the hell is the priest? Out visiting another sick friend?”

 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he knew that he was not needed in St. Julien’s today.”

 

Amanda turned to regard her with narrowed eyes, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning back against the door. “Do any of you clowns know how to answer a question without sounding like Kwai Chang Caine?”

 

Joanna considered the question, her smile broadening. “No.”

 

“_Merde_,” snapped Amanda. “Learn!” The words had no sooner left her mouth than the door behind her swung open as if it had been kicked, sending her sprawling onto her backside on the rectory floor.

 

Joanna’s smile became a grin as she followed her through the door, which instantly slammed shut again. “Are you all right?”

 

Amanda scrambled to her feet, brushing off her posterior and seething. “Of course I’m all right! What the hell was that?”

 

Joanna drew her sword and strode forward into the rectory. “It would seem,” she replied, in an overly serene tone that tap danced on Amanda’s last nerve in six-inch stiletto heels, “that you are needed in St. Julien’s today.”

 

Amanda very nearly shouted the foulest obscenity in her impressive repertoire before she remembered where she was. Muttering it under her breath, she pulled the pistol from her coat and followed Joanna as quietly as she could.

 

***

 

 

“This is pointless.” Methos stopped at the foot of the altar steps. He could sense Duncan behind him, shadowing his footsteps. Damn the man. He couldn’t spare any more thought for him now. “Why die, Lucius? You don’t need to destroy an entire city to have your revenge on me. I’ll go with you now, and you know it.”

 

“Goddamn it,” raged Joe, trying desperately to yank his hands free with no success. “MacLeod, don’t just stand there! Get his ass out of here now!”

 

“Joe,” said Duncan in a strained tone. “Easy.”

 

“I know it.” The satisfaction in that voice made Methos flinch. “You would. You would let me finish what I have twice begun.”

 

“Yes. Release him, and I’ll go with you now.” Methos wondered if he sounded as desperate as he felt.

 

“Release me and I’ll fucking run you through,” snarled Joe to the man behind the altar. Behind the altar. Why was Lucius behind the altar? Was he even now trying to inspire terror by remaining unseen? It was effective; Methos had to concentrate to keep his hands steady.

 

“Revenge upon you is not enough,” returned Lucius coolly, as if Joe hadn’t spoken.

 

“What more do you want?” Methos edged closer to Nathan and Joe, watching closely for any opening. Surely Lucius would show himself. Surely he would wish to see the look on Methos’ face when Nathan struck the blow.

 

“I want Darius of Rome.” The words echoed obscenely behind the altar, thick and venomous. “And I shall have him.”

 

Methos drew a steadying breath, relaxing his arms, lightening his grip on the sword in his hand. “He’s dead, Lucius. He was killed by rogue Watchers three years ago.”

 

“It is a lie. He lives. He is here. But he hides from me, Marcus, like the coward I always suspected him to be. Hides in some crypt, some priest-hole—”

 

“Behind an altar?” suggested Methos with sudden acid, his every instinct now attuned to the inexplicable. Lucius Germanicus was hiding.

 

“Darius is dead, Lucius,” cut in Duncan, coming to Methos’ side with his katana in his hand. “I found his body here myself.”

 

“He has been seen here,” said Nathan evenly.

 

“Yes,” said Duncan softly. Methos shot him an astonished look. “But it would be a mistake to assume that the body is all that can be seen. Or felt.” Duncan paused for a moment, but Lucius said nothing. “He’s dead, Lucius.”

 

“It cannot be.” Lucius’ voice was hard.

 

Methos forced a contemptuous laugh from his constricted chest, slowly making his way around to the side of the altar, trying to catch a glimpse of the man behind it. “It can and it is. He is beyond your vengeance, Lucius.”

 

“I sense him. We both sensed him the moment we entered this place. Can you not sense him, Marcus?”

 

“I sense him,” growled Methos. “And he’s dead.”

 

“You cannot deceive me.”

 

“He’s not trying to deceive you! Darius is dead.” Duncan’s voice rose passionately. “You can’t exact vengeance from the dead, Lucius.”

 

“You are mistaken.” The loathing in Lucius’ tone made Methos flinch; it was too much like his own had once been. “Alive or dead, I shall have him.”

 

“You won’t have him,” said Methos slowly, struggling to understand his own feelings as he spoke. “The man you want to kill ceased to exist fifteen centuries ago.”

 

“Damn you, Marcus Gaius, do you now ally yourself with Darius of Rome?” Lucius voice rose stridently.

 

“No.” Methos took a quick breath. Duncan had seen Death in Methos and nothing else, as Methos had seen the butcher in Darius—and nothing else. He’d given no more credence to Darius’ reformation than Duncan had to Methos’, no matter what evidence had been laid before his eyes. Would MacLeod be the man he was, the man Methos loved, if his mentor had truly been Darius the Butcher? No. The senselessness of Methos’ ancient hatred of this place and its occupant overwhelmed him for a moment; Methos’ keen awareness of the presence within St. Julien’s became a painfully sharp reminder that, despite all his talk of salvation, there was someone he himself had not yet forgiven.

 

“I ally myself with Darius of St. Julien’s,” said Methos in a low, steady voice. “MacLeod was right, Lucius. He changed. He was a good man. There is no way to determine how many lives he saved, how much suffering he averted, in the years between Lutetia and his death. I ally myself with that man, whatever he called himself.”

 

“God’s death,” hissed Lucius.

 

“Listen to him,” cut in Duncan urgently. “Stop this. God only knows what will happen if a quickening is taken on holy ground. Thousands of innocent people could die. People who have never done you harm. If you truly believe yourself to be an instrument of God’s justice, you can’t do this.”

 

“I know what I am!” It was a snarl.

 

“Face me, then,” said Duncan grimly. “Outside. Away from holy ground.”

 

“Mac,” breathed Joe, casting him a desperate look.

 

“If your cause is just, you’ll defeat me,” persisted Duncan.

 

“Trial by combat.” Lucius made an odd, wheezing sound that made the hair on the back of Methos’ neck rise; he edged in front of Duncan again. “Do you hear, Nathan? Once again he evokes God as judge; once again he challenges me.”

 

“I hear,” said Nathan with a curl of the lip.

 

“Come then, knight errant. Come look upon your opponent. Challenge me to my face.”

 

Nathan stepped away from the altar, pulling Joe with him; his heart seizing, Methos flung his arm across Duncan’s chest and stopped him in his tracks. “Stay where you are, MacLeod.”

 

“He’s not accepting your challenge, you idiot!” Joe was shouting now. “He can’t accept your challenge! He’s—”

 

Duncan shoved Methos so hard that he fell onto his backside on the stone floor, then bounded up the steps to stand between Joe and the altar and froze there, staring at the floor behind the altar with a shocked expression. That look pinned Methos to the floor for one fleeting second, but then Nathan started to move, and Methos surged to his feet and up the steps. He was too late by half a second. Nathan lunged, shoving Joe forward, and thrust his sword into Duncan’s back and through his body. Duncan drew a ragged breath and stared forward, eyes wide.

 

“_Mac!_” Joe screamed the name with an anguished expression, jerking back against Nathan as his hands, arms, and chest were spattered with Duncan’s blood. Methos howled in inarticulate empathy as Duncan spasmed on Nathan’s blade for an agonizingly long moment, then slumped forward to slip off the end and collapse to the floor. Methos charged toward Nathan with his sword raised, but Nathan whirled to parry the blow; Methos stared, panting with rage, over Joe’s shoulder and into Nathan’s dark eyes, steel sliding against steel.

 

“You bastard,” said Joe brokenly, his gaze fixed on Duncan’s unmoving form. “You sick bastard.”

 

“The mighty warriors,” sneered Methos into Nathan’s face. “Sheltering behind a mortal. MacLeod was right. You’re a coward. You’re both cowards.”

 

“Silence,” snapped Lucius.

 

Methos ignored him and leaned closer, his cheek almost grazing Joe’s. “Your father would spit in your face, Nathan, son of David.”

 

Nathan’s eyes flared dangerously, and Methos knew he was in trouble the moment he felt the man’s stance shift. Nathan whipped one leg behind Methos and swiped at his calves hard enough to knock him off balance, then immediately brought his hands and Joe’s about into a powerful blow to the chest that sent Methos reeling onto his back on the floor. “Do not dare to evoke my father in this place, Marcus Gaius.” He drove the point of his sword through Methos’ upper chest, just beneath his shoulder. Methos choked back a strangled yell as Nathan yanked his sword out again and laid it against his neck.

 

Joe groaned, his hands still imprisoned around the hilt of Nathan’s sword. “Don’t. Please, God, don’t.”

 

Methos clenched his teeth as Nathan slid the blade across his throat, drawing blood.

 

“Now watch,” hissed Lucius behind him. “Watch me destroy Darius of Rome, you and everyone you love, Marcus Gaius.” With one last little jab to Methos’ neck, Nathan stepped closer and lifted his sword.

 

“No,” gasped Methos as he struggled to rise, vaguely surprised that Joe’s gaze seemed to be locked on something on the other side of the altar.

 

In the next instant, Joe sagged in Nathan’s arms, held marginally upright only by Nathan’s grip on his hands, and a gunshot that seemed louder than most explosions tore through the air. Lucius started screaming Nathan’s name then, screaming it again and again as Nathan was propelled backward to lie dazed and bleeding from a wound in his chest.

 

Joe staggered but remained upright, barely, swaying from side to side like a drunken man, Nathan’s sword still clutched in his bloody hands. Methos whirled to see who had fired the shot, but something else, something small and loud and in constant motion, diverted his dazed attention.

 

“Nathan,” it shrieked again from a horrifically scarred face amid a mane of unkempt blond hair. Its four short, useless stumps gesticulated wildly, disturbing the blanket in which it had been wrapped. Methos froze, staring and numb, until those familiar blue eyes locked with his own, until he saw the wraith of the man he had known. He lowered his head to the floor, unable to move or speak.

 

“Master,” whispered Nathan, struggling to his feet.

 

“I would advise you to stay where you are, Nathan,” said a woman grimly, a woman that Methos struggled to identify. He knew the voice. He was certain he knew the voice, but did it really matter now?

 

“No,” said Joe in an eerie monotone. “You may not have this.”

 

Methos jerked his head up at the sound to see Nathan attempting to reclaim his sword as Joe stared down at Lucius, unblinking, and held tightly to the blade. “Don’t touch him!” he gasped, shock exploding into fear and anger.

 

“Are you deaf?” snapped another voice. Another shot echoed through the nave, but Nathan dropped to the floor, taking cover behind the altar, and snatched Methos’ sword from his weakened grip.

 

“He is not deaf,” returned the first voice, still grim. “He is stupid.”

 

“Joanna,” breathed Methos. He drew a deep breath. “Amanda. Get the hell out of here!”

 

“Drop it!” Amanda’s voice was closer now. “Get away from them!”

 

“Strike, Nathan,” howled Lucius, thrashing frantically. “Kill Marcus Gaius now!”

 

Without hesitation, Nathan raised himself to his knees, lifted Methos’ sword and arced it downward toward Methos’ neck. Methos pinched his eyes shut and reached out to clutch Duncan’s arm, determined to touch the man one last time, cursing himself for every error in judgment that had brought them to this ridiculous end.

 

A surprising clash of steel near his ear made his gasp and flinch away; his eyes snapped open to see Richie standing at his side, glowering into Nathan’s stunned face, his sword holding Nathan’s at bay. “Okay. Let’s recap. You sliced one of my friends, carved up another one and now you’ve shish kabobed my teacher.” Richie hauled back his free hand and punched Nathan in the face hard enough to send the man reeling backward down the steps to land on his back some ten feet from the altar. “I’d say that makes you a major asshole.” Richie followed him, sword raised. “So let’s do this again. Richard, son of Duncan.”

 

Nathan sprang to his feet and swung wildly at Richie, who parried the uncontrolled swipe with ease. Nathan started making his way back up the aisle toward the altar again, fending Richie off with obvious difficulty as the younger man pressed him with a fairly impressive flurry of lunges and parries.

 

Methos staggered to his feet and tried to take Nathan’s sword from Joe, who remained where he was, watching the combat with an impassive expression. Joe turned toward him and spoke softly, pulling the sword out of Methos’ reach. “You will not need this.”

 

“Nathan, stand where you are.” Joanna strode around Amanda to plant herself between the combatants and the altar, sword raised. “It’s over. Put up your sword.”

 

Nathan’s only response was a wild swipe at Richie’s neck, which Richie parried effectively, if clumsily. Tearing his gaze from Joe’s face, Methos flinched; he knew that the boy was good, but he was no match for an opponent of Nathan’s experience. There could be only one outcome to this.

 

Amanda darted in front of the altar and aimed her weapon at Nathan. “She said stand where you are, and that’s what she meant,” she snarled. “Take one more step in this direction, and I’ll put one through your heart.”

 

“Nathan!” howled Lucius. “You will not allow Darius’ whore to lay hands upon me! I will not be taken again.”

 

“You will not be taken,” hissed Nathan, lunging at Richie again.

 

Amanda swore loudly and fired. Nathan whirled toward her with a shocked expression as a crimson stain soaked the front of his shirt as well as the back; he fell to his knees, then onto his face, and lay still. Richie lowered his sword, nodding at Amanda. Everyone stood still for a moment; all Methos could hear were the rasping breaths of the living.

 

Amanda glanced at Joanna. “Are you sure he wasn’t deaf?” she demanded acerbically, breaking the silence.

 

“Nathan,” hissed Lucius. “Nathan!”

 

“He cannot answer you.” Joanna mounted the steps to the altar to stand at Methos’ side; Richie and Amanda followed her.

 

Methos stared down at Lucius, at the twitching remains of once hearty limbs, at the twisted, puckered remains of the handsome face, at the blazing madness in the blue eyes, then turned to Joanna. She met the gaze squarely, ignoring Amanda’s ragged intake of breath as she peered behind the altar.

 

“Why. Didn’t. You. Tell. Me.” Methos barely recognized his own voice.

 

“Oh, my God,” muttered Richie, turning away.

 

“Was your burden not great enough?” whispered Joanna.

 

“_My _burden?” Methos stared down at Lucius again.

 

“Enjoy your triumph,” hissed Lucius, eyes fixed on Methos’ face.

 

Methos let himself sink to his knees, too exhausted to remain standing, and started to laugh bitterly, lowering his head. “My triumph.” He started violently as the door to the rectory opened with a bang, and nearly retched.

 

“It will be fleeting.”

 

“Joanna. Take Nathan into the garden. Amanda and Richie will help you.” Joe’s voice was soft, steady, and strange, but Methos could not drag his gaze from the ravaged man before him.

 

Methos heard Joanna gasp softly, then stride swiftly down the altar steps. “Richie. Amanda. Come.”

 

“I thought I had reached you in time,” murmured Methos, lost.

 

Lucius already twisted face twisted even further as he sneered. “I am not defeated.”

 

“No one told me, Lucius.”

 

“Imprison me where you will, I shall escape.”

 

“I’m sorry,” whispered Methos. God, Sebastian had been right. He had been right all along. He had seen this, known this, anticipated the centuries of misery that Methos’ interference would cause. “I should have let you go.” He heard the door to the rectory close and realized, dimly, that the others had left.

 

“I shall wreak vengeance upon every generation of Watchers, and upon all you hold dear, until the end of time, Marcus Gaius.”

 

Methos lowered his head again, overcome.

 

“No. You will not do this,” said Joe.

 

Duncan groaned Methos’ name softly and stirred; Methos reached over to lay a weary hand on his shoulder. “Mac. I’m here.”

 

“I will,” snarled Lucius. “I will find servants worthy of my cause.”

 

“No. You will not. You will never leave this place.” Joe’s voice was quiet. Sad. And he was speaking Latin.

 

Latin.

 

Methos’ head jerked up in shock. “Joe?”

 

“Forgive me,” murmured Joe, lifting Nathan’s sword. “For what has been done. For what must be done.”

 

Lucius’ eyes widened. “Yes,” he hissed. “Now the coward shows himself, when all danger has passed. Now the monster appears to finish what it began!”

 

“I will finish it,” whispered Joe, tears in his eyes, but Methos surged off the stone to grab Joe’s hands in his own, holding the sword over Joe’s right shoulder.

 

“Joe,” gasped Methos wildly. A staggeringly powerful swell of disorientation began its slow roll over him the moment he laid hands on his friend; he staggered against him, struggling to maintain his balance. “What is it? What—?”

 

“You are blind, Marcus Gaius!” Lucius screamed the words so loudly that Methos was certain they could be heard outside the nave. “Look at his eyes, his eyes!”

 

Methos stared into the eyes he’d come to know so well in the past decade, past the familiar blue to a new light, one that shone back in a different hue, as if from a great distance, or through a stained glass. Methos felt that light flood over him, and through him now; its warmth had an essence all its own, one he would have recognized no matter how long it had been denied him.

 

“No,” whispered Methos. The rest of his balance and strength deserted him; he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Joe’s and closing his eyes.

 

“Methos.”

 

_Lord, King and Father unbegotten, True Essence of the Godhead, have mercy on us. _

This didn’t happen. Consciousness wasn’t transferred by a quickening.

 

“Forgive me, son.”

 

_Lord, Fount of light and Creator of all things, have mercy on us. _

But it _had _happened.

 

“I _am_ yours, child. Close your eyes and see me with your heart.”

 

_Lord, Thou who hast signed us with the seal of Thine image, have mercy on us. _

The man he’d hated and shunned for centuries was … Sebastian.

 

“I see you,” choked Methos, eyes pinched tightly shut.

 

_Christ, True God and True Man, have mercy on us. _

He’d lost the soul dearest to him in all his long life because he could not bring himself to forgive.

 

“Forgive me, child.”

 

_Christ, Rising Sun, through whom are all things, have mercy on us._

Fifteen centuries. Sebastian had waited for him in this place for fifteen centuries, and he had never come.

 

“Always. Forgive _me_.” Methos’ voice cracked and broke into a sob.

 

_Christ, Perfection of Wisdom, have mercy on us. _

He’d turned his back on Sebastian; he’d cast him out.

 

“Always.”

 

_Lord, vivifying Spirit and power of life, have mercy on us. _

And there was nothing he could do to make this right.

 

“Methos?” Duncan’s alarmed voice sliced through Methos’ tender consciousness.

 

_Lord, Breath of the Father and the Son, in Whom are all things, have mercy on us. _

No. He wouldn’t allow this communion to end. He wouldn’t allow death to reclaim the source of the only salvation he’d ever known.

 

“Death has no dominion; I bear a gift for the sons of my first life and my second. My two beautiful sons.”

 

_Lord, Purger of sin and Almoner of grace, we beseech Thee abandon us not because of our Sins, O Consoler of the sorrowing soul, have mercy on us._

Father.

 

“Child. Do you trust me?”

 

“Yes,” Methos whispered brokenly. “Yes.”

 

“Though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not _love_ I am nothing.”

 

Methos smiled, but he knew his face was wet. “Yes. I love you, Sebastian. Go with God.”

 

Sebastian’s loving chuckle caressed his ear. “Which one?”

 

Methos laughed raggedly, opening his eyes only when he felt the warm forehead touching his own move away.

 

“You won’t need that,” murmured Joe, casting Duncan a loving look.

 

Duncan drew a sharp breath and dropped his katana as if it burned him, mouthing Darius’ name in silent shock; he stared up at Joe with wide eyes and an aghast expression.

 

“No,” howled Lucius, his gaze darting from one man to the next in agitated comprehension. “No!”

 

“Forgive me,” muttered Methos, holding Lucius’ gaze for one moment, then closing his eyes. “Forgive me.”

 

“_Libera me de sanguinibus Deus, Deus salutis meae: et exultabit lingua mea iustitiam tuam_,”· whispered Joe.

 

“No, wait! We can’t, not here!” Duncan leaped to his feet and seized Joe’s wrist, but it was too late.

 

The sudden power of Joe’s downward slice caught Methos off guard; his arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets as Nathan’s blade whistled through the air, met the all too familiar resistance of flesh and bone, then whistled free again as the small body behind the altar went still. Duncan’s harsh breathing was all Methos could hear for a moment.

 

“God Almighty,” Duncan faltered; for the first time since Methos had known him, he sounded truly frightened. Methos forced his eyes open to meet Duncan’s horrified gaze. “We’ve…my God. We’ve killed….” Methos felt a slight vibration under his feet.

 

“_Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei._ _Requiescat in pace,_”· murmured Joe, his hands going limp around the hilt of the sword. Methos let go of Joe’s hands, and the stained sword fell to the ancient stones.

 

“On holy ground,” finished Methos quietly, unable to look at the silent, unmoving flesh at his feet, or the muted cloud of light that rose from within it. The vibration grew more pronounced, causing the candlesticks and the cross on the altar to tremble ominously; a strangely warm breeze swept down the nave. Joe sagged against Methos, obviously unable to stand. No more able to stay on his feet than Joe, Methos lowered his friend to the floor, every muscle trembling in exhaustion, and took Joe’s head and shoulders into his arms.

 

Duncan sighed shakily and knelt behind them, wrapping his arms around Methos; he stared down at the man lying in Methos’ arms. “What have we done?” Chairs began to topple in the nave; the candlesticks fell from the altar to strike the floor. A thin veil of dust began to descend from the arches above them, whipped by the growing wind, lit by the pulsing light vapor that by now had expanded, diffused, permeated the structure around them, following the mortar crevices of the stones to form a glowing latticework. “What will happen?”

 

“Peace,” murmured Joe, his eyes drifting shut as if he were falling asleep. “_Sanctus Deus, Sanctus Fortis, Sanctus Immortalis, miserere nobis et totius mundi_”_._·

 

Methos had to lean down to hear the words over the growing rumble beneath them, the groan of ancient timbers and stone, the whistle of the wind around the stone pillars. Joe sighed and went limp in Methos’ arms. “Peace, Sebastian.” Methos lifted his head and buried his face against Duncan’s chest, breathing hard, hugging Joe to him tightly and bracing himself for the inevitable pain and violence of a quickening—and whatever else might come afterward. He could feel rather than see the light increasing inside the church, a more intense light than these old stones had seen in fifteen centuries; it was only a matter of seconds before it struck.

 

“It’s beautiful,” said Duncan in a stunned voice.

 

Methos lifted his head to see the wonder in Duncan’s face and the light in his eyes; he felt his fear evaporate at the sight, he fell in love all over again. “_You_ are beautiful,” he murmured in Gaelic, leaning upward, desperate for one last tender touch from this courageous man before the unknown came to exact its price. Duncan glanced down at him, startled, then smiled and leaned down to take Methos’ mouth with his own and caress it lovingly as the light burst its bonds of stone, crackled through the air and coiled about them.

 

Methos cried out into Duncan’s kiss, anticipating the familiar, soul-shredding pain, and was astonished when it didn’t come. Pulling reluctantly away from Duncan, he watched in fascination as the coil of light broadened, flattened, and curled to encircle them, shimmering as it soared swiftly from floor to the vaulted ceiling. Methos caught his breath in recognition as the glistening fountain arched over them.

 

“Methos,” whispered Duncan. “What is it?”

 

Methos pointed upward wordlessly; Duncan’s gaze followed his. They watched the glimmering light churn over their heads for several seconds, then gasped in unison as the entire liquid structure suddenly collapsed inward upon itself, tumbling toward them with the echoing roar of many waters. Duncan clutched Methos to him, wrapping himself around him protectively as Methos curled himself over Joe, shutting his eyes as the scalding wave washed over them. And still he felt no pain, only warmth; a light so bright Methos could see it with his eyes closed burned a word into his mind as deeply as if a giant or a god were screaming it in his ear.

 

_Agapé_.

 

“What?” gasped Methos into the sudden, stunning silence. “What?” Methos felt a warm hand caress his cheek and tilt his face upward; he forced his eyes open to see Duncan searching his face anxiously. Methos allowed himself a breath and a glance about him. The church looked as if a tornado had blown through it, but it was still standing, and it certainly didn’t resemble any afterlife he’d ever heard of. Not a glimmer of light nor a puff of wind disturbed the dim, silent room. “We’re alive,” he said dazedly. “We’re not…supposed to be alive, are we?”

 

“You’re asking _me_?” Duncan looked and sounded as if he’d run a marathon; Methos could feel him shaking.

 

Methos looked down at Joe, stupefied, struggling to understand, then hastily laid a hand against his friend’s carotid artery. A pulse beat there, slow and strong, and Methos began to breathe normally again. “He’s all right.” He glanced up and down Joe’s body, looking for any sign of what he knew could happen to a mortal body caught in a quickening, and found none. “How could he be all right?”

 

Duncan let out a deep breath of what sounded like profound relief. “Methos. Right now all I care about is that he is. That you are.” Duncan lifted Methos’ hand to his lips and kissed his palm.

 

“Mac, this is…we just…this is impossible.” Methos floundered for a rational explanation and came up empty.

 

Duncan started laughing quietly. “Weren’t you the man who asked for logical proof of the existence of faith?”

 

Methos started violently and stared into Duncan’s brown eyes, searching. “Yes,” he whispered, a glimmering of understanding lighting his dark confusion. “I did. Eleven centuries before you were born, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

 

Duncan’s eyes widened as he took a sharp little intake of breath. “Oh,” he said softly.

 

“Oh,” murmured Methos, pulling Duncan toward him. He rested his forehead against Duncan’s and closed his eyes, numb. Duncan shifted, touching his lips to Methos’ lightly. Methos leaned into the comfort of the touch, but was startled away from it by a long-suffering sigh from the vicinity of his lap. He hastily glanced down at the source of the sound, cringing inwardly. “Oh. Hey, Joe.” Well, they may have survived a quickening on holy ground, but it was entirely possible they might not survive this.

 

Duncan cleared his throat and stared rather pointedly off into the distance.

 

“Great. Just great.” Joe glared up at the two of them with weary, if irritated, resignation. “Why do I get the feeling that my life just got a whole hell of a lot more complicated?” He glanced about the storm-swept nave in obvious confusion. “Did I miss something?”

 

“Not much.” Methos bent over him, stroking back the silver hair. “Just the end of the world.”

 

“Figures.”

 

Duncan laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder, smiling. “Are you all right?”

 

Joe snorted and tried to sit up; it took all three of them to manage it. “Do I _look_ all right, MacLeod?”

 

Duncan’s smile became a grin. “Joe, you look beautiful.”

 

“Shut up. Where’s Lucius?”

 

Methos’ euphoria imploded; he felt his smile drain away as he pointed wordlessly to the still form behind the altar.

 

“Holy shit,” whispered Joe. “Holy shit.” He looked at Methos anxiously. “Are you—?”

 

A shriek from the direction of the rectory cut him off and sent Methos bounding to his feet. Snatching up his sword, he shouldered his way through the rectory door and through Darius’ study to find Richie wrestling with Nathan just inside the door to the garden; Methos could see Joanna and Amanda scrambling to their feet outside, both looking a little worse for wear. “Richie, back off!” Methos leveled his sword at Nathan. “Outside. Now.”

 

Richie backed away to stand at Methos’ side, breathing hard. “Son of a bitch just wigged out on us.”

 

“Where is my master?” snarled Nathan.

 

“Your master is dead,” replied Methos evenly. “I took his head.”

 

Nathan’s face twisted in anger and horror. “You could not have taken his head here and lived!”

 

Methos laughed mirthlessly. “Fine. I’m dead. Outside.”

 

“I will not leave my master! I will not allow you to imprison him again!”

 

“He isn’t imprisoned any longer,” said Methos quietly. “He’s free.”

 

“No.” Nathan’s body tensed as if for a spring. “You are lying. You are—” He broke off and stared with a horrified expression at something over Methos’ left shoulder. Methos’ peripheral vision caught an image of blood and blond hair; it was all he could do not to flinch away.

 

“Jesus. Mac,” said Richie weakly.

 

“Satisfied?” demanded Duncan in a harsh tone. “The rest of him is still behind the altar.”

 

Methos saw Joanna blanch and close her eyes.

 

Nathan’s eyes narrowed in hatred. “Damn you. Damn you all.”

 

“Outside,” ordered Methos sharply. “Richie, give him your sword.”

 

“_What?_”

 

“Do it!”

 

“I’ve already challenged him, Methos,” said Duncan quickly. “He’s mine.”

 

“I told you the day we met you couldn’t fight my battles for me, MacLeod.” Methos couldn’t spare the man a glance, but he didn’t need to see him to feel the intensity of his gaze.

 

“Methos.”

 

“Mac. Do this for me.”

 

Silence reigned for a moment.

 

“Give him your sword, Richie,” said Duncan quietly. “Please.”

 

“Shit,” muttered Richie. He threw his sword at Nathan’s feet. “Take it, you bastard. Let’s see how good you are with a blade when the other guy isn’t tied down.”

 

Nathan snatched up the sword and backed slowly down the steps and into the garden. “You have killed him.”

 

Methos followed him, nodding wordlessly.

 

“You have caused me to fail him!” screamed Nathan, swinging at him wildly.

 

Methos parried the uncontrolled swipe easily. “You didn’t fail him,” he said in a strained voice. “I did.”

 

Nathan whirled and began to hammer Methos with a storm of ill-aimed, frantic blows, which Methos deflected, grimacing. “Damn you! Damn you to hell! Fifteen centuries of agony, only to have justice denied him! You know nothing of his suffering, nothing! Traitor! Coward!”

 

“None of his victims knew anything of his suffering either,” retorted Methos, managing with difficulty to suppress the image of Gabriel screaming out his last breath. “They were innocent. And you knew it. Their blood is on your hands, Nathan.”

 

Nathan stood panting for a moment, wild-eyed. “And how much blood stains _your _hands, Marcus Gaius?”

 

“Too much to have any desire for yours,” said Methos quietly.

 

Nathan’s eyes narrowed.

 

Methos shrugged, vaguely aware that the people around him seemed to be holding their collective breath. “You can try to kill me if you like. But I’m telling you right now that I’m better than you. I will take your head, and you will have lived for nothing.”

 

Nathan remained silent, studying Methos’ face.

 

“Or you can swear to me by your father’s grave that you will leave me and mine in peace, and leave.” Methos heard Richie mutter rebelliously behind him, saw Amanda’s jaw drop, saw Joanna bow her head.

 

Nathan’s expression went blank. “Leave?”

 

“Yes, leave. And live. For something other than vengeance.”

 

Nathan’s gaze locked with Methos’. “There is nothing else left for me.”

 

“You’re wrong,” retorted Methos passionately. “Your master is dead. Your oath to him is broken. You’re free. You can choose another way.”

 

“There is no other way for me now.”

 

“There is! Are you really so fond of the hell you’ve been living for the past nine centuries that you can’t bear to leave it?” snarled Methos.

 

“Fond?” Nathan stared at Methos bleakly. “I _understand_ hell, Marcus Gaius.”

 

Methos drew a shaking breath, not entirely certain that his knees wouldn’t buckle. “Having reached that understanding, move on.”

 

Nathan glanced down at the sword in his hand for perhaps two heartbeats, then threw it aside. It rattled against the flagstones as Nathan turned away.

 

“Nathan,” said Methos harshly. “Your oath.”

 

Nathan glanced over his shoulder. “I swear by the grave of David son of Samuel of Mainz that I will leave you and your….”

 

“My family,” murmured Methos as Nathan paused, feeling Duncan’s hand rest on his shoulder.

 

“…your family in peace.”

 

“Violate that oath, and I will hunt you down and introduce you to some knives of my own,” said Methos with soft menace. “It’s been a while since I’ve used them, but I was trained by a master.”

 

Nathan looked startled for a moment, then nodded silently, and strode across the lawn, away from the main entrance. Methos watched him walk away, ignoring the raging scream that threatened to burst from his gut and give itself voice, then let his own sword fall and turned to bury his head against Duncan’s chest.

 

 

* * *

· Deliver me from bloods O God, the God of my salvation: and my tongue shall extol thy justice.

· Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.

· Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and the whole world.


	14. Chapter 14

“You let him go.” Urquhart stared at Methos across the food-laden coffee table, his cup of tea frozen halfway to his mouth.

 

Joe tossed back the rest of his beer and groped in the cooler for another. Prolonged conversation with Winston Urquhart inevitably made him yearn for a drink, and this encounter promised to be a doozie. He glanced apprehensively at the stiff figure sitting on his right.

 

“I let him go.” Methos’ voice was toneless, his face like chiseled ivory. Duncan, seated at Methos’ left, laid his hand on Methos’ arm.

 

“You got a problem with that?” Richie eyed Urquhart with no small measure of protective belligerence, playing with the hilt of his sword. Methos flashed him a quick, strained smile, and Richie leaned back in his chair, muttering.

 

“A problem?” Urquhart’s teacup crashed against its saucer as he lurched to his feet; he leaned toward Methos, infuriated and threatening. “Are you out of your mind, Pierson?”

 

“Sit down,” ordered Joe, sensing more than seeing every member of Clan MacLeod and the Order move forward from their assigned positions in the hold, hands on weapons. “And shut up, Urquhart. You’re here to listen.”

 

“I have listened! I’ve listened to you tell me that that poor cripple we found in St. Julien’s—”

 

“Unless you want this ‘poor cripple’ to take off one of his legs and shove it up your ass, I suggest you watch your damn mouth,” snarled Joe. He saw Methos’ eyes narrow dangerously, saw Duncan’s mouth set in a grim line, and snorted dismissively, leaning back again, defusing the tension. Methos needed to come to an understanding with this clown, and as much as Joe would enjoy seeing a can of Immortal whup-ass opened up on Lord Haw-Haw, it was probably more trouble than it was worth.

 

Urquhart had the grace to flush and clear his throat as he eased himself back into his seat. “Dawson. No offense intended. It’s just that…good God, man. We’re talking about Lucius Germanicus. The Immortal that’s put the wind up every Watcher since 496 AD. And you’re trying to tell me that he was…well, helpless.”

 

“Events would indicate otherwise,” returned Methos coldly.

 

“But he didn’t.… I mean to say, he couldn’t—”

 

“Deal with it, Urquhart. The man your recovery team took from St Julien’s is Lucius. And I want the body.”

 

“Why?”

 

“_Why?_ Because I won’t have it stuffed and mounted in the Director’s Gallery like some goddamned trophy!” Methos spat out the words.

 

Urquhart went a florid shade of magenta. “We’re not barbarians, Pierson!”

 

“Events would indicate otherwise,” muttered Jochen, deliberately audible.

 

“Jochen,” said Joanna sharply over her shoulder. “Silence.”

 

Methos continued as if neither had spoken. “I want the body. I want the rest of Sebastian’s journal. And I want the Council’s assurance that no measures will be taken against Joe.”

 

Urquhart snorted. “And what exactly do you offer them in return?”

 

“Me,” said Methos quietly. “Tell them they get me.”

 

“Jesus H. Christ,” exploded Joe. He should have seen this coming a mile off.

 

Methos laid a reassuring hand on Joe’s arm. “Congratulations, Urquhart. You’re the Watcher who found Methos. Take a bow. Update my file. You want the complete Methos chronicle? You’ve got it.”

 

“Everything?” Urquhart’s eyes lit up; in any other circumstances Joe would have laughed out loud. “No omissions?”

 

Methos smiled grimly. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

 

Urquhart studied him for a moment, regaining his composure. “It’s not enough,” he said finally.

 

“Not _enough_?” Methos leaned forward angrily. “You’ve been trying to piece together Methos’ history for centuries. I’m prepared to hand it to you, signed, sealed and delivered.”

 

“And all you want in return is the journal of the Ancient at the Gate, and the Council to ignore the fact that Joe Dawson has violated his oath yet again,” snapped Urquhart.

 

“I wouldn’t bring up the Oath, if I were you. MacLeod and I didn’t exactly pop out of thin air at St. Julien’s this morning.”

 

Urquhart huffed, but looked distinctly uncomfortable. “That’s a far cry from concealing the whereabouts of Methos.”

 

“I wonder if a tribunal would see it that way. What do you think, Joe?”

 

Joe gave Methos his dirtiest look, but he was unable to resist yanking Urquhart’s chain. “I think they’d take his ass out back and blow his ugly head off,” he said cheerfully.

 

“So do I.” Methos opened a beer, sending the cap flying skillfully into Urquhart’s lap.

 

Urquhart brushed the cap out of his lap impatiently. “Damn it, what was I supposed to do? Risk the entire city of Paris?” He barked out the words defensively, fidgeting in his chair.

 

Methos shrugged and took a prolonged swallow. “Not for me to say. I’m just a simple Immortal, going about my business of bloodshed and mayhem. The complexities of Watcher politics are far beyond my limited comprehension.”

 

Urquhart glared at Methos, his face a mask of seething frustration, as a ripple of muffled laughter swept around the room. “You’ll give us your chronicle?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’ll answer any questions we have? You’ll explain this quickening on Holy Ground?”

 

“You’re welcome to my theories on the subject.”

 

“I don’t like this, Methos.” Duncan’s voice was grim.

 

“I hate it,” snapped Joe. “If Watcher security is compromised again, if another hunter ever gains access to those records—”

 

“One disaster at a time, guys.” Methos leaned back in his seat, his exhaustion apparent to even a casual observer.

 

“Do not do this for me.” Joe caught Methos’ eye and held it. “I’ll take my chances with the Council.”

 

“The hell you will.” Methos’ voice was mild, but his eyes were steel.

 

“You don’t have anything to say about it, Pierson,” put in Urquhart in an annoyed tone. “The Council will handle this. If they think the offense warrants a tribunal—”

 

“You will tell the Council,” said Methos in a voice that made Joe’s small hairs rise, “that if any Watcher harms Joe Dawson, they will be longing for the good old days of Lucius Germanicus before the week is out.”

 

“Just … just calm down, Pierson,” stammered Urquhart, clearly taken aback.

 

“And I will start with you.”

 

“Methos,” murmured Duncan, as Urquhart visibly recoiled. “He’s not our enemy.”

 

“Do you understand me?” continued Methos coldly.

 

“Adam,” breathed Joe, recognizing the feral gleam in Methos’ eyes. “Easy.”

 

“I understand you,” squeaked Urquhart.

 

“The body, the journal, and the promise.”

 

“They won’t give up the journal.” Urquhart managed to steady his voice.

 

“Do they have someone else in Research who can read a dozen extinct languages?”

 

Urquhart uttered something like a gulp. “You’ll provide us with a translation?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ll tell them that. They’ll also want a description of this Nathan of Mainz.”

 

Methos laughed unpleasantly. “I don’t think so.”

 

Urquhart clutched the arms of his chair with a determined expression. “Are you insane, Pierson? This is the man who actually—”

 

“I know what he did.” Methos’ voice was harsh.

 

“He’s a danger to every Watcher on the planet, including you.”

 

“No. He isn’t.”

 

“Oh, and you can guarantee that, can you? His promise to be a good boy is enough for you, I suppose. Well, when the first dead Watcher turns up—”

 

“There won’t be any more dead Watchers, Urquhart,” said Joanna quietly. “Not courtesy of Nathan of Mainz, at any rate. It’s over.”

 

Jochen muttered something under his breath.

 

“I said silence.” Joanna’s voice was glacial; Jochen subsided with a resentful expression.

 

Urquhart leaned forward, clearly agitated. “I don’t think you appreciate what this monster is capable of, Pierson, and you should. You’re a Watcher, for God’s sake. You’ve seen Gabriel’s platters.”

 

“Shut up, Urquhart,” snapped Joe, horrified for the man beside him.

 

“I’ve seen a good deal more than that,” said Methos in a voice that made Joe’s stomach turn over. “I’m Stephanos.”

 

Urquhart stared at him blankly. “Stephanos.”

 

“If you want to find Nathan, you’ll do it without me. The last time I set up one of my own, your predecessor chopped his head off.”

 

“You’re Stephanos.”

 

“The body, the journal, and the promise, Urquhart. I want them delivered here by sunset. That’s all I have to say.” Methos rose, stalked up the steps and out the door.

 

***

 

“Joanna. You’re a goddess.”

 

Amanda started back to awareness, then looked on in something close to fearful awe as Richie pounced on yet another bag stuffed with hamburgers. She inched away from the frightful spectacle, making quite certain that all her appendages were well away from the grasping fingers and gaping maw.

 

Joanna shot Richie a wry glance, sitting beside him on their perch on the pilot house roof. “Not recently.”

 

Richie looked up, startled, his mouth already full of hamburger. “Oh,” he mumbled around his food. “I get it. This is one of those ancient Immortal jokes, right? Ha ha ha.” He shoved more hamburger into his mouth, glaring. “His lordship going to be okay?”

 

Richie jerked his head in the direction of the bow, where Methos stood, staring up at the Petit Pont a few yards off the bow. Raphael sat a few feet away, ostensibly polishing his sword, his keen gaze never straying from Methos for more than a few seconds at a time.

 

“He has endured far worse and survived.” Joanna smacked Richie’s hand away and snatched a hamburger from the bag. “I believe he will be all right in time.”

 

Amanda snorted as she dangled her legs over the edge of the roof and helped herself to a beer. “Of course he will. And he’ll be in trouble again before I have time to buy new shoes. To say nothing of my f—”

 

“Full-length leather coat,” finished Joanna through a mouthful of hamburger. “You’d look better in vinyl.”

 

Amanda narrowed her eyes to slits. “How old did you say you were, sweetie? And why did you send the Irregulars away? We might need them. I wouldn’t trust Urquhart as far as I could throw him.”

 

Richie rolled his eyes. “Come on, Amanda. He isn’t going to call out the troops.”

 

“I don’t think so either. But if he should, we will have plenty of warning.” Joanna fished a beer from the cooler.

 

Amanda stared at her. “We will?”

 

“At any rate, it was a show of good faith. Raphael and I will stay here,” continued Joanna as if Amanda hadn’t spoken. “Everyone else will find accommodations nearby until this business with the Watchers is resolved.”

 

“And then?” Richie leaned forward to grab another burger.

 

Joanna sighed. “Then…I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think that far ahead. I need to speak to Duncan and Methos.” She turned to watch Duncan, who was talking to Urquhart as he climbed into his car.

 

“What is it with those two?” demanded Richie, lowering his voice and pausing in the act of shoveling another burger into his mouth.

 

“What is _what _with those two?” Amanda turned to scowl at him, daring him to actually come out and say it.

 

Richie flushed and gestured toward Methos with his hamburger. “That. You know. Come on, you must have noticed. I mean, making up is good. I’m all for making up. But…well, they’ve been….”

 

“Making out?” suggested Joanna airily.

 

Amanda choked, sending beer spraying over the remains of the late lamented full-length leather coat. “It’s a phase,” she snapped. “I give it a week. Maybe two.”

 

“I think they make a beautiful couple, don’t you, Richie?” Joanna sipped her beer serenely.

 

The remains of Richie’s hamburger dropped uneaten from his fingers as he stared at Joanna, the very picture of aghast dismay.

 

“That’s it.” Amanda swung herself off the roof and to the deck. “I am out of here.”

 

“Was it something I said?” called Joanna with sickening innocence.

 

“Prehistoric bitch,” snapped Amanda, deliberately audible. She stormed toward the bow, her mood not in the least sweetened by Joanna’s satisfied cackle. Methos was still standing there, obviously lost in thought, or whatever passed for thought in a being with dangly bits; she heard Urquhart’s car start, and glancing over her shoulder, saw Duncan making his way up the gangplank.

 

A beautiful couple. Well, she’d just see about that. It occurred to her that the last few days had not been in the least bit fun. It also occurred to her that Mr. I-Am-Oh-So-Ancient-and-Wise had taken off for the church without her, despite explicit instructions to the contrary, and that Duncan had been taking a walk on the wild side without sharing; these offenses were not, repeat _not_, going to pass without retribution. “Methos.”

 

Methos started and turned toward her. “Amanda?”

 

Amanda had long been of the opinion that conversation was pretty much a waste of time in ninety-nine percent of given situations. She seized Methos by the back of the neck, hauled him close, and kissed him deeply, curling her right leg around him, forcing him to bend over her as he struggled for balance. She felt the proverbial thrill of victory as Methos’ arms went around her, as his mouth moved against hers—and as Duncan’s footsteps approached the bow.

 

“Amanda.”

 

Amanda lavished her attentions on Methos’ lovely mouth for a few more well-calculated seconds, then released him, satisfied with the slightly stunned expression on the man’s face. She turned to face the boy scout. “Duncan.” Direct hit. Furious. He was absolutely furious. Amanda adjusted her clothing and smoothed her hair, enormously pleased.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Duncan was glowering.

 

“She thought she was kissing me,” replied Methos mildly.

 

“Is something wrong?” Amanda widened her eyes to appropriately innocent proportions.

 

“I thought she was kissing me, too,” added Methos helpfully. “What did you think she was doing, Mac?”

 

Duncan’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Well, I’m off,” announced Amanda cheerfully. “You boys have fun.”

 

“Thank you, Amanda.” Methos’ voice was suddenly serious, and Amanda turned to him in surprise. Damn, he _was _serious. Methos lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gravely. “For everything.”

 

Well, damn it to hell, what was she supposed to do now? “No problem,” Amanda managed in as light a tone as possible, given the genuinely grateful look the decrepit pain in the ass was giving her. “Anytime.” She turned away hastily, only to find the same look on Duncan’s face. Oh, hell. They were going to be no fun at all like this. “I’ll see you later.” She brushed up against Duncan provocatively as she passed. “And if you ever feel up to handling both of us, MacLeod—”

 

“Amanda,” muttered Duncan with a scandalized expression, flushing a brilliant magenta. Methos began chuckling softly.

 

“—you just let me know. Because you can always use the exercise.” Satisfied with the glazed look in Duncan’s eyes, Amanda strutted down the length of the deck, congratulating herself thoroughly. A groan from atop the pilot house made her look up in time to see Richie pinch his eyes shut and grope blindly in the cooler for a beer; Joanna looked on in obvious amusement.

 

“Aw, hell,” groaned Richie, turning his back to the bow and flipping the top off his beer. “Now look at ’em.”

 

Amanda turned to see Duncan and Methos wrapped around each other, mouths pressed together tightly enough to be hermetically sealed.

 

“He _told _us he wasn’t throbbing, you know,” mumbled Richie into his beer. “He said it in no uncertain terms, ‘I am not throbbing.’ I mean, you can’t get much clearer than that, right? ‘I am not throbbing’ should mean ‘I am not throbbing.’ And goddamn if he isn’t over there throbbing all over the goddamn place.”

 

“Throbbing is bigger than all of us, Rich,” said Joanna gravely.

 

Amanda snorted as she watched the two idiots on the bow, making out like a couple of mortal teenagers. Well, okay. Maybe it would last longer than a couple weeks. Maybe a month. Maybe. In any case, she for one would be very happy when things got back to normal around here. “I’m going for a little spin in my new Rolls,” she announced, turning toward the gangplank. “And to buy myself a new coat.”

 

“Could I have the old one?” asked Joanna in a polite tone that set off Amanda’s warning bells; she paused at the top of the gangplank.

 

“What for?” she asked in a deadly tone.

 

“I have a scarecrow in my turnip field back home that would look just darling in that coat.”

 

Amanda grit her teeth and stalked down the gangplank. “The only scarecrow from your neighborhood is in Paris, wearing out her welcome. Give me a call when you need a ride to the airport, won’t you, sweetie?”

 

“Certainly,” Joanna called after. “And when you’re in need of a pall bearer, I’m at your service.”

 

“Likewise,” snapped Amanda as she stalked down the gangplank to the sound of Joanna’s laughter.

 

***

 

 

“How long was I asleep?” Joe pinched his eyes shut and clutched the sofa cushion beneath him.

 

“Just a couple hours. Almost done. You’ve got some nasty inflammation here.” Methos’ voice was quiet.

 

Joe grit his teeth as Methos gently applied the ointment to his legs. “Should have gotten those damn things off hours ago.”

 

“Days ago.” Methos voice grew even quieter.

 

“Could have belted Nathan over the head with ’em, I guess.”

 

Methos snorted. “What, and miss the chance to play ‘High Noon’ with Urquhart?”

 

“Look who’s talking. What did you think he was going to do, haul off and shoot me in front of you?” Joe sighed in relief as Methos lowered his legs to the sofa.

 

“I’m not taking any chances. The last time a regional coordinator started throwing the word ‘tribunal’ around, you wound up with a gun to the back of your head.”

 

Joe grunted in surprise as Methos began massaging his left leg. “He wasn’t too happy with you either, pal. Oh, damn, that feels good.”

 

“Winston Urquhart is never happy with anybody.” Joe could hear the relief in Methos’ voice. “It’s against his religion.”

 

“No kidding.” Joe relaxed as the taut muscles began to give way under Methos surprisingly skillful hands.

 

“Do you think they’ll agree?” asked Methos finally.

 

Joe sighed. “Yeah. They’ll do it. How could they resist having Methos under their thumb?”

 

Methos shot him a wry glance and said nothing.

 

Joe hesitated, then took another shot. “Don’t do it, Adam. Please. All it would take is one accident, one weak link at Headquarters, one lucky hunter, and your cover would be blown forever. Methos would have a name, and a face, and every goddamned bastard playing the Game would be on your trail. It’s not worth it.”

 

“Trust me, Joe,” said Methos quietly. “You’re worth it.”

 

“God,” muttered Joe, blinking hard. “You are such a pain in my ass.”

 

“Yeah, well. Everybody needs a hobby.”

 

“If I buy you a stamp album, will you knock this shit off?”

 

“We need leverage to ensure your survival, and I’m all we’ve got at the moment.”

 

“Why are you so damn sure they’d come for me? They’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.”

 

Methos shot him an inquisitive look. “Such as?”

 

“Such as finding some poor schmuck to take the fall for Shapiro going off the deep end, for starters.”

 

Methos grimaced dismissively. “That won’t take long. You let me hide right under their noses, Joe. They’re not going to let that blow to their pride pass unless they have something to gain by it.”

 

“That’s what MacLeod said,” growled Joe, realizing they were right and hating it. “You’ve been hanging out with that guy too long, pal.”

 

Methos uttered a funny little laugh and avoided Joe’s gaze. “Yeah. I’m past hope, Joe. The exposure has been well into the toxic range for years, and the contamination is irreversible.”

 

Joe snorted. “You’re telling me.” He paused for a moment. “Think Urquhart will find Nathan?”

 

“Not without a description.”

 

“Which you won’t give him.”

 

“Not a chance in hell.” Methos’ voice lowered in grim determination.

 

Joe thought about that for a minute. “Why?” he asked finally, opening his eyes.

 

Methos met his gaze gravely. “Why did I let him go?”

 

“Yeah.” Joe saw Methos hesitate. “Look, if I’m out of line, just tell me to shut up.”

 

“Out of line?” Methos’ eyes widened. “The man nearly killed you.” Methos stared at him for a moment, his hands carefully kneading the spasms from Joe’s leg. “You’re not angry.”

 

Joe shrugged. Of all the reactions that had cascaded through him since Methos had told the son of a bitch to get lost, anger had yet to make an appearance. “It was your call.”

 

“And if I’m wrong? If he comes looking for you?”

 

Joe snorted. “With you around? His head would be in the Director’s Gallery by sundown.”

 

“Yes,” said Methos tautly. “It would.”

 

Joe swallowed and forged ahead. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. He’ll keep his oath.”

 

Methos regarded Joe with steady wonder for a few seconds.

 

“What?” demanded Joe, unnerved by the scrutiny.

 

“Nothing. I’ll tell you why if you like. But I’m not sure it will make any sense to you.”

 

“Knowing you, probably not. But I’m listening.”

 

Methos seemed lost for a moment, then started speaking in a low, tense voice, his hands continuing to move soothingly across Joe’s fiercely aching muscles. “When you’re a slave, your survival depends completely upon your ability to please your master. It becomes the most important aspect of your life. It consumes you. Before you’re even aware that it’s happening, you find yourself seeing the world as he does, treating the world as he does. You become what enslaved you.”

 

Joe felt a chill travel up his spine. “You were a slave.”

 

“I spent a good quarter of my life as a slave.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“I’ve had kind masters and cruel ones. Sane and mad. But the last man who bought me was different. He was Immortal. He was mad, cruel and brilliant. And vengeance was what he lived for.”

 

“Kronos,” said Joe softly.

 

Methos nodded, his face noticeably paler. “He bought me in some mud hole trading town in Syria. He liked my fair skin.”

 

Joe’s eyes pinched shut again. Christ. Oh, Christ.

 

“I learned pretty quickly that Kronos’ slaves didn’t last very long, especially not his bed slaves. I probably wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t been Immortal. That fascinated him, too—how much punishment I could take during sex. But even that started to bore him, and I realized that the only way to ensure my survival was to please him in other ways. I started letting it be known that I’d been a warrior, that I could read, that I’d studied military strategy, battle tactics. He was amused, at first. But eventually, he began to take what I said seriously. He tried my tactics and they worked. Eventually he allowed me to ride with him and Silas and Caspian.”

 

“As a slave.”

 

“At first. It took me a while to prove myself; he didn’t free me for another decade. But by then I didn’t want to be free of him. I liked what I was doing, and he knew it. I liked to kill. I lived for the thrill of the plan, the attack, the slaughter, the taking of slaves—it pleased Kronos. I forgot who I’d been. I forgot there was any other way to see the world. I forgot everything except pleasing Kronos. I became what had enslaved me.” Methos was barely audible.

 

Joe kept his eyes shut, and his mouth. He didn’t trust his voice. God, it was a good thing for Kronos that MacLeod had whacked him. He wouldn’t have gotten off half as easy if Joe had gotten his hands on him first.

 

“I couldn’t kill him, Joe,” muttered Methos finally, moving to Joe’s other leg.

 

“Kronos?” whispered Joe, opening his eyes. “Or Nathan?”

 

Methos turned to him, his face drawn in anguish. “Neither. What difference is there between any of us?”

 

“Kronos chose to do what he did.”

 

“So did I. I chose, Joe. Don’t for one minute think I didn’t. I was every bit the monster MacLeod thought I was. Part of me still is.”

 

“There is no part of you that’s a monster, Adam.” Joe couldn’t keep the ferocity out of his voice for the life of him. “And whether or not you had any other options is open to debate.”

 

Methos gave him an odd, crooked little smile. “Care to debate Nathan’s options?”

 

Joe sighed. “No. I understand what you’re saying. I do.”

 

“I know,” murmured Methos. He was silent for a moment. “Joe.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You do realize we’ve been speaking Latin, don’t you?”

 

Joe stared at him blankly. “Excuse me?”

 

“Latin,” repeated Methos gently, meeting his gaze. “We’re speaking Latin.”

 

Joe blinked, trying to focus on Methos’ words; they faded into meaningless sound the instant he brought his conscious thought to bear, but he recognized Latin when he heard it. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “What the hell?”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Joe.” Methos spoke in English, smiling.

 

“Easy for you to say,” growled Joe, thoroughly unnerved. “You’re not the one speaking in tongues.”

 

“It’s early days yet,” returned Methos wryly. “I think you ought to plan on spending a few days here.”

 

Joe cleared his throat. “Appreciate the invitation, but I think I’d better give you guys some privacy.”

 

Methos shot him a puzzled look, then averted his gaze again. “Oh.”

 

 A short, awkward silence fell, and Joe waited, knowing what was coming.

 

“I’m in love with him, Joe,” said Methos quietly, studying his hands.

 

“Yeah, I know,” returned Joe gently, amused to see the astonishment in Methos’ face as he raised his eyes to Joe’s. “Should’ve known sooner. You two have only been dancing around each other like a couple of junior high kids with crushes since the first time you laid eyes on each other.”

 

Methos snorted, regarding Joe with an apprehensive expression. “You okay with this?”

 

Joe found himself smiling. “You asking for my blessing?”

 

Methos glared. “What if I was?”

 

“I’d give it to you. But your taste sucks, pal.” Joe let his smile broaden to a grin.

 

“Tell me about it,” said Methos drily, but his relief was palpable.

 

“Think you’d snap out of it if I hit you over the head?”

 

“Unlikely. Thanks for the offer, though.”

 

“No problem. Anything I can do to help.”

 

Methos smiled. “Stay,” he said gently. “That would help.”

 

Joe let his eyes close. God, all he wanted to do was say yes. He wanted to lie on this couch for the next month and sleep, privacy be damned. “Let’s see how Mac feels about it. Hell, everybody else has cleared out.”

 

“Joanna and Raph are still up on deck. So is Richie.”

 

Joe chuckled, not really surprised. “Guard duty.”

 

“Joanna sent the rest of the Order into town, but she wants to keep an eye on us until this business with the Watchers is resolved.”

 

“Like father, like daughter.”

 

Methos chuckled ruefully. “You aren’t the first to notice.” He carefully released Joe’s leg and covered him with a blanket. “Any better?”

 

“Yeah,” murmured Joe gratefully. “Thanks, Doc.”

 

Methos shot him a surprised grin.

 

“How’s the patient?”

 

Joe started at the sound of Duncan’s voice; he hadn’t even heard him enter the hold. God, he must be even more tired than he realized. “I’ll live,” he said wryly, opening his eyes. “Everything quiet up there?”

 

Duncan snorted and fell into a chair. “Not exactly.”

 

“Trouble?” asked Methos sharply.

 

“That depends on your definition of trouble. Your daughter and my son are sitting on top of the pilot house, drinking your case of beer and making crank phone calls to Watcher headquarters.” Duncan propped his feet up on the coffee table with a resigned expression.

 

Joe cackled appreciatively. “Tell ’em to come down here, I want to hear this.”

 

“Bloody hell,” muttered Methos, rising. “That’s all we need.”

 

“What? Let ’em have their fun,” protested Joe.

 

“They can have all the fun they want, but I’ll be damned if they’re drinking all my beer while they do it,” snapped Methos, striding toward the door.

 

Joe watched as Duncan caught Methos by the hand. “Kids will be kids,” he said softly, raising Methos’ hand to his lips. Methos flushed slightly, touched Duncan’s cheek, and turned toward the door, muttering under his breath. Duncan turned back toward Joe, still smiling, then looked uncomfortable and shifted his gaze as Joe stared back at him with narrowing eyes. Oh, yeah. It was woodshed time.

 

Joe waited until Methos was through the door before he spoke. “You and me are going to have a little talk, pal.”

 

Duncan met his eyes again, startled. “About?”

 

“I’ve spent half my life studying you, and that includes your love life.”

 

Duncan reddened. “Hold on a minute, Joe.”

 

“And if there had been any hint of you swinging that way, I would have found it.”

 

“Just because—”

 

“So help me God, if you are screwing around here, if you are messing with his head—”

 

“_What?_”

 

“—I will personally kick your sorry ass all the way back to Glenfinnan. Watch me.”

 

“I love him, Joe.”

 

Joe studied Duncan’s flushed, indignant face carefully for a moment. “We all love him.”

 

“I am in love with him,” continued Duncan with a sort of dogged specificity, as if determined to make himself perfectly clear for all time. “And just because you don’t know every detail of my private life—”

 

“Okay, okay.”

 

“The hell it is!”

 

“Look, MacLeod, you don’t exactly have a track record to be proud of when it comes to Adam,” snapped Joe. “If you think I’m going to stand by and watch you rip him up again, you’ve got another think coming.”

 

Duncan’s flush deepened; he dropped his eyes. “Right,” he muttered. “So you’ve got a problem with this.”

 

“I’ve got no problem with it at all,” retorted Joe. “Just treat him right, MacLeod. You treat him right and we’re good.”

 

Duncan looked up again; Joe was relieved to see him smiling, albeit ruefully. “That’s what I want to do, Joe. That’s all I want to do.”

 

“Then we’re good.” Joe settled back against his pillows, satisfied.

 

“First time I’ve had to declare my intentions in a few centuries.” Duncan’s smile deepened with mischief.

 

Joe swore under his breath. “You’re a world-class pain in the ass, MacLeod,” he growled, closing his eyes as he failed, miserably, to keep a smile off his face. “Shut up and let me get some sleep.” Duncan chuckled, and it occurred to Joe that the man sounded almost as tired as Joe felt. “You should crash, too,” he managed to mumble.

 

“Yeah. I will.” Duncan’s voice was gentle. “Sleep, Joseph.”

 

Joe sighed and drifted off, unable to fight his exhaustion any longer.

 

***

 

 

“I don’t care how good your Kalas impression is, and I care even less whose turn it is to do Cleopatra.”

 

Half asleep and eyes closed, Duncan smiled at the barely concealed laughter in Methos’ irritable tone. The man’s acerbic veneer was completely transparent to him now; he wondered how he had ever been fooled by it.

 

“No,” growled Methos in increasing exasperation; Duncan could hear him approaching the hold door. “I will not do Attila the Hun or anyone else. Leave the Watchers alone. Raph, take the phone away from Joanna, she’s had too much beer.” He paused on the threshold, evidently listening to the ensuing complaints.

 

“Don’t whine! If you can’t take care of your pets properly, then you don’t deserve to have them.”

 

Duncan chuckled and opened his eyes, only to see Methos stumble over the threshold of the deck door and brace himself against the wall, cursing under his breath. “Methos?” Duncan sprang out of his chair, surprised at the weakness in his legs, and steadied him with a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

 

“Shhh.” Methos shot Duncan a reassuring glance as he leaned against him. “Don’t wake Joe.”

 

Duncan glanced at Joe, still sound asleep on the sofa. “He’s fine. Methos—”

 

“I’m just tired.” Methos’ knees buckled and he laughed weakly. “Very tired.”

 

Duncan swung the man determinedly into his arms and carried him to the bed, ignoring Methos’ indignant expression.

 

“MacLeod,” Methos hissed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Taking you to bed,” whispered Duncan teasingly in his ear, enjoying the sensation of Methos’ weight in his arms in spite of himself. “So that I can have my wicked way with you.”

 

Methos’ ashen face softened into affectionate amusement; he managed a weak smile. “Spare my honor, vile seducer,” he murmured. The smile didn’t conceal the dark circles under his eyes, or the convulsive trembling in his muscles. He felt to Duncan like a horse that had been run to complete exhaustion, run past what anyone could reasonably expect any creature to endure.

 

“Never. Your fate is sealed.” Duncan set his friend gently on the bed, noting in increasing concern that Methos could barely sit up. He was still wearing the bloodstained sweatshirt Duncan had given him that morning. “Take that shirt off.” He strode in to the bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water, then hurried back, only to find Methos exactly where he had found him, staring into space with such profound grief in his face that Duncan had to fight to keep his composure. “Lift your arms,” he whispered around a tightening throat. He knelt in front of his friend.

 

Methos blinked, his expression returning to simple exhaustion, and obeyed him wordlessly. Duncan slipped the sweatshirt over his head, noting in dismay how very far the light in Methos’ eyes had to travel before it met his gaze. The man was in some kind of shock, and no bloody wonder. Duncan gently wiped the blood from Methos’ shoulder and chest with shaking hands. Damn. How had Methos kept going? Negotiating with Urquhart, then dealing with Amanda’s nonsense and Joe’s injuries. Duncan cursed himself for ten kinds of a fool. He should have handled all of that himself. He should have put this extraordinarily brave, impossibly stubborn man to bed hours ago. Duncan started out of his thoughts as two long, strong hands curled around his face.

 

“I’ll be fine,” said Methos unsteadily. “It’s just starting to catch up with me.”

 

Duncan dropped the washcloth to the rug, took Methos’ hands in his own and kissed them impulsively. “I know. You need to rest now.”

 

Methos nodded as Duncan drew back the covers on the bed. “So do you.”

 

Duncan sighed and helped Methos crawl under the covers, then let Methos draw him in beside him. The temptation was too much to resist—a comfortable bed and a beautiful bedmate—and he acquiesced despite his better judgment. Raphael could keep an eye on things for a little while, no matter what mischief the children got up to. He curled himself around Methos gently and closed his eyes; silence reigned for a few seconds.

 

“Mac.” It was no more than a whisper.

 

Duncan kissed Methos’ temple tenderly. “Kinsman.”

 

Methos drew a ragged breath. “I miss him.”

 

Duncan took the trembling man beside him into his arms, aching. “I know.”

 

“God, I miss him.” The voice shattered and broke into hoarse, shuddering sobs, muffled between Duncan’s neck and his pillow. “He was here, Duncan, right here, waiting for me, for centuries. And I never came. God, I never came. He died waiting for me.”

 

Duncan opened his eyes, breathing hard against the pressure in his chest, but his vision was blurred. “And I came too late to save him.”

 

Methos groaned and wrapped his arms around Duncan, his sobs giving way to painful, convulsive breaths. “Duncan, no. Don’t.”

 

“I miss him, too,” rasped Duncan, feeling the hot sting of tears as they hit his cheek. He closed his eyes again, too weary to wipe them away.

 

“I know,” breathed Methos unevenly. “I know you do.”

 

_“O consolator dolentis animæ, eleyson_ _·_ _.” _

 

“What?” Methos’ voice was soft, but he had stiffened slightly.

 

“I love you,” repeated Duncan, wondering dimly why Methos sounded so startled.

 

“Ah,” whispered Methos tenderly, after a heartbeat’s hesitation. He relaxed against Duncan. “I love you, too, kinsman.”

 

***

 

 

Methos descended the gangplank and came to a halt on the shore, watching silently as the van came to a halt beside Urquhart’s sedan. The dim illumination of the streetlights turned the evening river mist to a silver curtain, softening the edges of men and machines, but the edge didn’t fail to cut Methos. He knew what was inside the van.

 

He sensed rather than saw Raphael, Joanna and Richie taking up positions behind him, and restrained a sigh, thankful that Duncan and Joe were still asleep. These three were all the protection he could handle at the moment. Urquhart crossed the distance between them, carrying an archival box across the cobblestones as if it contained the crown jewels.

 

“The Council have agreed to your terms.” Urquhart offered him the box.

 

“No tribunal.” Methos kept his hands in the coat Joanna had brought him from his apartment, grateful for the opportunity to hide their shaking.

 

“They are prepared to ignore Dawson’s involvement in this business.” Urquhart hesitated. “Pierson. Dawson got lucky this time. If he continues to fraternize—”

 

“He will. And the Council are going to have to learn to live with it, Urquhart. You might want to remind them that if it hadn’t been for Joe Dawson’s ‘fraternization,’ the Watchers would either have been destroyed quickly by Kalas, or slowly by Lucius. That’s twice in three years that Joe’s friendship with Immortals has saved their hides. Maybe it’s time they give that fact due consideration.”

 

Urquhart surprised him with a small smile. “You really are a unbridled idealist, aren’t you?”

 

Methos barked a laugh, genuinely taken aback. “A what?”

 

“I was at Dawson’s tribunal when you spoke, you know. Let friendship thrive. Good Lord, Pierson.”

 

Methos lifted his chin and took a good, long look down his nose at the man standing before him. “You have a problem with friendship, Urquhart?”

 

“Don’t be an ass. You were tilting at windmills, and you knew it. You wanted to _reform_ the Watchers—probably the most hidebound organization on the planet—and I think you still do.”

 

Methos gave Urquhart his most enigmatic smile, increasingly uncomfortable. Was that what he was trying to do? Good God, he hoped not; that would indicate levels of MacLeod contamination beyond anything he had yet imagined, levels that would inevitably lead to the horrors of moral certainty and rampaging do-goodism. “I don’t do causes.”

 

Urquhart glanced at the van. “Don’t you?”

 

“That,” said Methos coldly, “is personal.” He held out his hands for the box, and Urquhart relinquished it, examining Methos’ face with sharp grey eyes.

 

“I see.”

 

“I’ll bring you my chronicle tomorrow. Be at St. Julien’s at noon.”

 

Urquhart nodded. “May I ask what you intend to do with Lucius?”

 

“I intend to see that he has a Christian burial.”

 

Urquhart’s eyes widened. “A _Christian _burial?”

 

“He was Christian,” replied Methos evenly. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

 

“My God, Pierson. That’s obscene. Lucius was—”

 

“Lucius was many things. And if what you think of as ‘Christian’ was hacked out of him by a madman after he’d been abandoned by the Watchers he trusted, all the more reason for you to honor those beliefs now.” Methos turned away, mastering his anger with difficulty.

 

“Pierson,” said Urquhart, quiet now. “MacLeod is right, you know. I’m not your enemy.”

 

Methos stood still, his eyes locked with Joanna’s for several seconds; he saw her nod minutely. “We’ll see,” he said finally.

 

Urquhart sighed. “Tomorrow at noon, then. Oh, and Pierson. Tell whoever has been terrorizing my staff with bad impersonations of historical figures to give it a rest. We have enough to deal with.”

 

Richie and Joanna exchanged glances and pointedly avoided Methos’ stern gaze as Urquhart strode back to his car, calling to the driver of the van to join him in the sedan.

 

Joanna cleared her throat. “I will take Lucius to St. Julien’s,” she murmured as Urquhart’s car pulled away. “The priest there is a friend. He will see that all is as it should be.”

 

“I should do that.” Methos wondered vaguely if he had the strength to climb the gangplank, let alone see to Lucius’ final arrangements.

 

“No. This is my last duty to him.” Joanna looked up at him, a plea for understanding written so clearly in her face that Methos found himself nodding without any further thought.

 

“Richie?”

 

“Thank you,” murmured Joanna, kissing his cheek. Methos kissed her forehead gently.

 

“Gotcha. We’ll take care of it.” Richie moved to Joanna’s side and gave Methos a sober look. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah. I will be,” Methos amended wryly at the skeptical look Richie gave him. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem.” Richie slapped Methos’ shoulder.

 

“No,” said Methos quietly. “I mean, thank you.”

 

“Oh.” Richie shrugged and grinned. “Forget it. We all get decrepit and helpless eventually.”

 

“Go away,” snapped Methos, turning toward the barge and managing, just barely, to keep the smile off his face.

 

“I mean, I couldn’t just stand there and let your sorry, shriveled-up old geezer ass get whacked, right? What kind of rep would that get me?”

 

Methos glanced over his shoulder at Raphael as he climbed the gangplank. “Raph, I want his head made into a chamber pot. Make the appropriate arrangements.”

 

Raphael gave him a long-suffering look and relieved Methos of the box. “Go back to bed, my lord.”

 

“That would be cold, man,” continued Richie, raising his voice as Joanna dragged him toward the van, “Letting a bad guy hack the head off some pathetic, senile old bastard who keeps dropping his sword. And I am a warm, caring, heroic kind of guy, you know?”

 

“Take a good look at him, Raph,” growled Methos. “And know there is a hell. Follow the paths of righteousness lest you, too, be damned for all time.”

 

Raphael’s mouth twitched. “I will bear this lesson in mind, my lord.”

 

“What the hell is going on out here?”

 

Methos gasped slightly, startled as Duncan loomed suddenly out of the mist, the katana glinting in the dim light. “Mac. Don’t do that.”

 

“Sorry.” Duncan peered ahead as the van’s engine started. “Where are those two going?”

 

“They’re seeing to Lucius’ burial.”

 

Duncan met Methos’ gaze. “They agreed, then.”

 

Methos nodded, suddenly wondering if he would be able to take another step.

 

Raphael slid past Duncan. “I will take this inside.”

 

“Don’t wake Joe,” murmured Duncan, his eyes locked on Methos’ face; Raphael nodded and disappeared into the fog. Duncan slipped his sword into his coat and held out his arms as Methos released a little gust of air from his tight chest and half-walked, half-staggered into them, reveling in the warmth of Duncan’s body.

 

“Come inside where it’s warm,” whispered Duncan in his ear, responding to Methos’ thought so perfectly that his breath caught in his throat.

 

“In a minute.” Methos nuzzled Duncan gently and slipped past him to walk aft, not surprised in the least when Duncan followed him. He came to a halt at the tip of the bow and stared through the lit mist at the ghostly reality of the Petit Pont, which spanned the river only a few yards ahead of them in the murk of the falling evening. The bridge before them in no way resembled the one that had stood here fifteen centuries ago. That one had been taken by the Seine, God only knew when. And yet Methos could see that long-gone bridge as easily as he could see this one, if he closed his eyes; the bridge, and the two figures standing upon it. He could almost hear the howling of the army that had stood on what was now the Left Bank. He drew breath and somehow managed to speak. “Can you see the bridge, Duncan?”

 

Duncan came up behind him, closely, tightly, and wrapped his arms around Methos’ waist. “Yes, I see it,” he murmured in Methos’ ear.

 

“No,” persisted Methos unsteadily. “Can you see the _bridge_?”

 

“Yes, Methos.” Duncan’s voice was soft, grave; Methos knew instantly that he understood what he was being asked. “I can see the bridge.” Duncan kissed Methos’ cheek tenderly.

 

Methos closed his eyes; he had thought as much. Glimpses of intuition and memory were beginning to seep even now into his conscious mind, but he could not quite comprehend them; every time he attempted to catch hold of one, it seemed to dart out of reach. The images were less elusive. In fact, they were inescapable; ancient places long gone, both familiar and strange, and the faces of people obviously dead for millennia lunged at his mind’s eye every time he drew breath. But he did not know their names. “He never stopped hoping,” he whispered, knowing it was true.

 

“He loved you,” whispered Duncan in return. “He still loves you.”

 

“And you. But I couldn’t bring myself to believe it was him.”

 

“Of course not. It’s never happened before or since, that anyone knows of.”

 

“No. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t why I couldn’t accept it.” Methos sensed Duncan waiting; he leaned back against him, allowing himself the comfort and strength of the touch. “I hated Darius of Rome,” he whispered fiercely. “I hated him with everything in me. I just couldn’t…forgive.”

 

Duncan sighed softly. “Methos. Do you really imagine I’ve forgiven the man who killed my father?”

 

Methos went very still, shocked. “My father,” he faltered. “My father?” Methos wasn’t conscious of the muscles in his legs failing until the moment he sagged against Duncan. Swearing softly, Duncan caught him, then eased them both downward to sit on the deck. He pulled Methos back against him, between his legs, and rested Methos’ back against his chest, then curled around him protectively as Methos released a broken breath and let his head fall back onto Duncan’s shoulder. “Father.”

 

_Child._

Duncan kissed his temple and tightened his arms around Methos’ waist. “Yes.”

 

Methos closed his eyes; he did nothing but breathe and accept Duncan’s caresses for what seemed like a long time. With his eyes shut, the kaleidoscope of memory could shift before his mind’s eye without the impediment of the present. The lure of those shifting images was more powerful than it had ever been.

 

“You didn’t sleep very long, did you?” Duncan’s voice brought him back with a jolt.

 

“No, not really.” Methos’ eyes snapped open as the realization that Duncan had been asleep for nearly ten hours swept over him. Ten hours, after yet another quickening. God, what had he been thinking? “Damn. Duncan. How bad were the dreams? Are you all right?” Methos turned his head enough to look up at Duncan, but his friend’s expression revealed nothing. That more hideous events from his past would inevitably be inflicted on Duncan was enough of a burden for both of them; if this bizarre quickening made the nightmares even more vivid, then God only knew what the long-term consequences could be.

 

“I’m fine,” Duncan said quickly, meeting his eyes with a flash of reassuring smile.

 

“Damn it, Duncan, tell me.”

 

“Methos, they weren’t nightmares. They were beautiful.”

 

“Beautiful?” Methos stared up at him, entranced at the wonder in the man’s face.

 

“Yes. Places I’ve never seen before, and places I’ve only seen in ruins. I saw the priests in procession in Karnak, Methos. It was so real I could have reached out and touched their robes. And I still see it. I see it right now.” Duncan’s eyes were far away now.

 

“I know,” whispered Methos. He knew the sensation all too well: every waking moment a struggle to remain afloat on an unfathomable sea of memory; resisting weariness, the battering of wind and wave, and the inexorable enticement of the depths— to descend and never again rise to life in the here and now. He shook himself and looked up at Duncan, only to find his friend staring blankly into the fog.

 

“Duncan,” snapped Methos in alarm; Duncan blinked and looked at him. “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t?” Duncan sounded dazed.

 

Methos sat up and turned around, kneeling between Duncan’s legs, leaning in close. “Don’t let it swallow you. Stay here. Stay with me.” He took Duncan’s face in his hands and stared into his eyes, frightened at how very long it took Duncan to come back from wherever he had wandered.

 

Duncan took a deep breath. “I’m with you. How do you do this, Methos? How do you keep going?”

 

Methos leaned forward and kissed Duncan very gently. “We can do this,” he whispered. “Both of us. Together.”

 

Duncan broke the tension with a weak chuckle and took Methos’ hands in his own. “I know. There’s just … so much of it. I’ve never felt like this after a quickening before. I can almost hear him talking to me. Can you hear him?”

 

Methos smiled, his eyes filling. “Yes. I hear him.”

 

“He wanted us to share his quickening.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He wanted to be with us.”

 

“Yes, Duncan.”

 

“You know what that means.”

 

“It means a thousand things. Which one troubles you?”

 

Duncan sighed and closed his eyes. “You were right. He saw it all. Not just Lucius. He saw his own death. Twice.”

 

Methos was silent for a moment as the grief in Sebastian’s face rose before his inner eye. “Probably.”

 

“And he never told anyone. He let it happen. Twice.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Because he knew—”

 

“God only knows what he knew. But I’m certain of this much. He always had a damn good reason for everything he did, and a passion to be wherever he was needed. I don’t completely understand him, Duncan, but I trust him.”

 

“You think the nightmares are gone for good,” said Duncan in the flat tone of sudden insight.

 

“I think Sebastian’s gift will be a gift in more ways than one,” said Methos quietly.

 

Duncan nodded silently, then pulled Methos back into his former position. Methos smiled and let his head fall back to rest on Duncan’s shoulder.

 

“Warm enough?” Duncan caressed him gently.

 

“Warm enough,” murmured Methos contentedly.

 

“I’m beginning to realize that I don’t like waking up without you.”

 

“Ah,” said Methos softly, unable to resist a smile. “I imagine something could be done about that.”

 

“Good.” Duncan drew one arm around his waist, and the other tantalizingly up the inside of Methos’ right thigh. Methos chuckled softly. “Don’t start anything you can’t finish, MacLeod.”

 

“Who says I can’t finish it?” breathed Duncan teasingly in his ear.

 

“Well, I’ve no objection,” murmured Methos playfully. “Been a while since my considerable talents were on public display.”

 

Duncan glanced about, looking puzzled. “We’re alone, Methos. Alone in the dark on a foggy night.”

 

Methos chuckled again. “Sure of that, are you?”

 

Duncan paused, then snorted in comprehension. “Raphael!”

 

No response was forthcoming; Methos couldn’t help but laugh at Duncan’s frustrated expression. “Raphael.”

 

The reply was instant. “My lord?”

 

“Either go below, or join us.”

 

“Methos,” hissed Duncan in exasperation.

 

“Which would you prefer, my lord?”

 

Methos grinned broadly as Raphael’s serene tone elicited anything but serenity from Duncan; the man was almost grinding his teeth. “I think it would be best if you went below, Raph.”

 

“Good night, my lord.”

 

“Good night, Raph. Thank you.”

 

Methos heard the man’s footsteps retreating along the deck in the direction of the hold door, and glanced up at Duncan in amusement. “He really does like you, you know. He wouldn’t have left if he didn’t.”

 

“I’m honored,” growled Duncan. “I suppose he’ll be sleeping at the foot of our bed from now on?”

 

Methos managed to restrain a laugh—and the euphoria that the phrase “our bed” released in him—with a supreme application of will. “I’m certain he’d be happy to oblige. Shall I ask him?”

 

Duncan laughed around soft kisses to Methos’ neck. “I don’t think so.”

 

“Whyever not?” asked Methos, with innocence enough to choke a horse.

 

“Because you are exquisite,” murmured Duncan in passionate Gaelic, “and I want you all to myself.”

 

Methos turned his head to look up at him, suddenly breathless. God, what was it about the man that stripped away every defense he’d ever had or thought of having? “You can have me all to yourself, Duncan MacLeod,” he whispered in the same language. “You can have me any way you want me.” He laid his hand on top of Duncan’s, guiding it up his thigh.

 

Duncan groaned and pressed his mouth to Methos’ neck as he fondled him through the sweatpants he was wearing. “I want you in every way physically possible.”

 

Methos’ breath caught sharply as he thrust his hips encouragingly into Duncan’s eager hand. “Don’t limit yourself, MacLeod.”

 

“Shhh,” breathed Duncan tenderly, untying the drawstring on Methos’ pants and slipping his hand inside. “You’re going to get us arrested for public lewdness, man. Quiet.”

 

Methos gasped and shuddered in his arms as Duncan’s hand curled around his organ. “Quiet? I…can do quiet. Does quiet turn you on?”

 

Duncan muffled his laughter against Methos’ ear as he stroked him gently. “Methos. Everything you do turns me on.”

 

“Ah. A man of eclectic tastes. Good. God. Yes. Just…yes.” Methos’ head fell further back onto Duncan’s shoulder, eyes closed; he lifted his chin, exposing his throat in invitation, panting softly.

 

“Yes,” murmured Duncan, bending his head to nip and lick gently at the tender skin just below Methos’ Adam’s apple. Methos uttered something close to a whimper at the loving touches and felt himself go suddenly and amazingly hard in Duncan’s hand; Duncan’s erection pressed into the small of his back. “Come for me,” whispered Duncan thickly in Methos’ ear. “I love you. I want to see you come.” Duncan quickened his strokes and lowered his mouth to Methos’ throat again.

 

Methos groaned deeply, teeth clenched to muffle the sound. He was dimly aware, through choppy waves of agonizing pleasure, that Duncan was still murmuring soft words around and between each kiss, each bite, each stroke—words of passion and communion, faith and comfort, devotion and protection. Words of forever.

 

Methos came hard, screaming behind clenched teeth and burying his face in Duncan’s hair, his hips bucking wildly as Duncan held him fast against his body, chanting his name. Methos lay panting in Duncan’s arms for what seemed like a long time, stunned, Duncan’s warm, wet mouth still worshipping Methos’ throat, still murmuring, until Methos turned toward him, forcing Duncan to lift his head, and seized that mouth tenderly in his own, pushing the man under his hands to the deck. Duncan gasped slightly as Methos unsnapped the jeans he was wearing.

 

“Now we’ll see how quiet you can be,” whispered Methos as he released Duncan’s mouth and slid down between his legs.

 

Duncan propped himself up on his elbows, breathing hard and watching Methos’ every move. “Maybe I can’t be quiet,” he rasped as Methos freed his erection and stroked it demandingly, lowering his head till his lips were almost touching the tip. “Maybe you’re too much lover for me to be quiet.”

 

Methos chuckled breathlessly. “Maybe?” He touched Duncan’s shaft with a feather-light touch of his tongue, and Duncan collapsed onto his back, panting.

 

“Yes,” he whispered to the night sky. “Methos—”

 

Methos slipped lips and tongue around the tip, then, without warning, engulfed all of Duncan’s organ in one fell swoop.

 

“Mother of God,” gasped Duncan wildly, striking the deck with his hands and trying to sit up again.

 

Methos pressed one hand against his stomach, forcing him down, devoting thorough, loving attention to every pore and surface of Duncan’s engorged shaft. Groaning, Duncan buried his hands in Methos’ hair, holding him still, thrusting his hips upward to send himself surging inside as Methos closed his eyes and clung to Duncan’s wrists, relaxing the muscles of his mouth and throat to accommodate the frenzied intruder. God, it had been so long, and he wanted this so much—this, and a thousand other things, from this man alone. He urged Duncan deeper, encouraging every thrust with caresses of lips and tongue, until the frenzy became so deep and fierce that it could no longer be sustained. Duncan came, shuddering and crying out softly into the night as Methos, in a frenzy of his own, swallowed his seed.

 

Methos fondled Duncan’s spent organ with his tongue until his shuddering passed, then slowly slipped his lips down its length and released him. The hands that had held him in place so firmly were now stroking his hair with profound gentleness; Methos paused for a moment, reveling in the touch, then went up on his quivering hands and knees to look down at Duncan.

 

Duncan stared back up at him, looking more than a little dazed. “Are you all right?” he whispered finally.

 

Methos nodded and bent down to kiss him, smiling. Duncan met him halfway, sitting up and taking him in his arms. He returned the kiss so sweetly, gently, that Methos broke away in surprise, his eyes filling, and buried his face against Duncan’s neck, breathing hard.

 

Duncan cradled him closely. “I was right not to share you,” he whispered in Gaelic, both tender and playful. “No one would be able to resist you, and I’d lose you to some damn fool who’d not cherish you one tenth as well as I.”

 

Methos chuckled deep in his throat, his tears spilling over. “Duncan MacLeod. You could share me with every consenting adult in Europe if you wished to, and not one of them would have a chance in hell of taking me away from you.” He let his eyes close, wrapping his arms around Duncan’s waist tightly.

 

“That’s good to hear,” sighed Duncan, and Methos smiled at the mischief in his voice. “But Raphael still gets a room of his own.”

 

***

 

“I do not know how you cheated, Joseph Dawson,” snapped Raphael. “This does not, however, alter the fact that you have.”

 

Methos hastily finished dressing and kicked his telltale sweatpants into a corner of the bathroom, emerging in time to see Joe lean back in his wheelchair, eyebrows raised. “Nobody likes a sore loser, Raph.”

 

“I did not lose.” Raphael scowled as he rose from his seat. “I was defrauded of my victory.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

 

Raphael glared, but Methos could see the suppressed laughter in the man’s eyes. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I will cleanse myself of the stench of battle and treachery.”

 

“Please do,” called Duncan from the kitchen.

 

Raphael scowled and disappeared into the bathroom, muttering under his breath, and slammed the door behind him.

 

“Gee, you think he meant me?” Joe favored Methos with a rather evil grin.

 

“No doubt about it,” Methos assured him in his driest tone.

 

Joe cackled softly, obviously pleased with himself. “Want to try your luck?”

 

“What are you hustling now?” Methos chuckled as he approached, but his amusement was cut off at the knees as he recognized the objects in Joe’s hands, and he sank slowly into the chair Raphael had just vacated, swallowing hard.

 

“Adam?” Joe’s voice was sharp with alarm, but Methos’ gaze was locked on the pieces of quartz scattered over the worn wooden board. “What?”

 

“Where did you find that?” Duncan’s voice at his elbow jarred Methos from his aching daze; he realized belatedly that Duncan was sitting crossed-legged on the floor beside his chair, offering him a bottle of beer. Methos took it mechanically.

 

“On the floor over there—I almost ran over it.” Joe leaned across the board and with one finger on the bottom of the bottle, guided Methos’ beer to his mouth. “Thought it was checkers until I opened the box.”

 

Methos took a sip of beer and raised his eyes to meet Joe’s. “Since when do you play shatranj, Joe?” His voice shook a little.

 

“Since when do we have conversations in medieval Latin?” countered Joe wryly. “You want a street map of Troy? I was hitting the taverns there a few hours ago.”

 

“Oh,” murmured Methos.

 

“Oh.” Joe searched Methos’ face with a wondering expression. “You okay?”

 

Methos nodded wordlessly.

 

“I haven’t looked at this in years,” murmured Duncan, gently picking up a Prime Minister and holding it at Methos’ eye level. The quartz shimmered brilliantly in the light. “It was a gift.” He turned to smile at Methos. “From Darius.”

 

Methos nodded again, blinking hard, and took the lovely thing from his hand. “Yes. A gift.” He managed to smile back, but Duncan’s eyes were wide in sudden comprehension.

 

“This belonged to Sebastian.” Duncan’s tone was hushed.

 

“Yes. I gave it to him before we left Rome.” Methos twirled the piece of carved stone in his hand. “He pretended to learn the game from me, but I suspect he was a master long before we met. The original hustler.” Methos tried to laugh, but his voice cracked. “If only these pretty things could talk.”

 

“What would they say?” Joe gazed at him steadily across the shatranj board.

 

Methos shrugged, his vision blurring. “ ‘I once knew a man who cheated at shatranj to save a man’s soul, and died to prove that death had no dominion.’”

 

Duncan rested his head against Methos’ thigh and closed his eyes.

 

Joe nodded thoughtfully, then began setting up the board again as if he’d done it all his life. “Come on, then,” he said softly. “I’ll teach you to cheat.”

 

* * *

· O Consoler of the sorrowing soul, have mercy on us.__

 


End file.
